The dear, familiar, adored shape of him receding into a gulp of blackness.
It all burns away and the ashes slip from her fingers and she can never love anything ever again.
PINK LADY
I was made for him.
It is morning, which is to say, it is the beginning of all things. It is bright and it is sharp and it is perfect and so is Eve, who wakes alone to this singular thought, as she does every morning; to this honeyed, liquid thought and sunlight and sparrowsong and the softness of green shadows in a house that has always been hers and hers alone. Her husband spoils her and she is grateful.
Eve runs her hand over the place beside her where her husband sleeps every night and thinks it again, with as much joy: I was made for him.