She felt it like a stray bullet grazes
flesh - suddenly, strangely, as if it never happened at all. She stared at the images on the screen. They seemed
meaningless like they had no connection to her life. The words that came from the actor's mouths sounded foreign. They were garbled, jumbled,
twirling and tumbling about her head like thick pink blobs
inside a
lava lamp. She had wondered how she would feel, often questioned herself
about what she would do the moment it happened. Would she break down
and cry or would she feel numb? Yet, nothing had happened that she knew of. It could be a trick of her mind, a projected fear. She'd felt that before, and when she'd go to check, all was well.
She looked ahead at the staircase that led up. The bare bulb on ceiling of the second floor cast a murky, feverish light on the runners. It seemed to bleed like a seeping wound down to the landing by the front door. Van Gogh, the Night Cafe, she thought. In a twisted way, it beckoned her to go up and see. Life sucks, she thought. It's far from pretty. There's always something to overcome, to recover from. Just when it seems that things have found their levels, something comes along to smash the balance. When she thought she was over Buddy, some little snatch of him would shimmer in her mind like a mirage, and he and his ridiculous presence would overtake her. For whatever reason, here he was again. She imaged what he might be thinking. Of course, he'd say nothing, but that smirk would say it all - that damned, stupid smirk. Asshole, it's not just a rabbit. It's meant so much more.
The anger propelled her up the stairs
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