Lori and Frank Bridgeford sit on a terrace of replica sandstone overlooking a ramshackle garden in 29 East Maine. They are each enshrouded in a little world, buying time, catching up with time, even toying with the notion of it.
To Lori, it is safe being like this, not talking about things.
Horrendous things have happened in their lives, clawing at normality. Now, the urge to speak is unmanageable. It hovers, it taunts.
Silently, they share a fag.
Her eyes are flat, his fretful.
A billow of smoke rises from her nostrils with her words. "It's been a long time, since--"
"Sorry babes," he says gruffly.
Time has dusted a bucket of ash in his hair, pulled at his face and added more wrinkles than before.
Before what? she wonders.
When he speaks, his chin dances.
"Should have come to Little Country sooner," he says.
)
