She's not sure if she feels the sting of bile on the back of her throat or if it's just in her head. Her lips purse momentarily at the offending word, husband, the word she wanted more than anything and the word that made her happy every single day for six weeks, six perfect weeks. The very work she wants to scuttle somewhere dark and shameful and never think about again because she'd ruined it.
But if it's not about her and her soon-to-be ex-husband, then what is there to talk about? That feels the slightest bit more alarming, like she hadn't thought of some second shoe waiting to drop.
She glances towards the parking lot, to wherever he wants her to go. She tries not to imagine herself hustled into a car, driven god-knows-where, dumped. The bile in her throat is real, but so is her resolve. Things could not possibly get worse.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
But if it's not about her and her soon-to-be ex-husband, then what is there to talk about? That feels the slightest bit more alarming, like she hadn't thought of some second shoe waiting to drop.
She glances towards the parking lot, to wherever he wants her to go. She tries not to imagine herself hustled into a car, driven god-knows-where, dumped. The bile in her throat is real, but so is her resolve. Things could not possibly get worse.
"Five minutes," she agrees.