#* wendy

     Not for the first time, he’s caught her crying. Wendy thinks sometimes about all the times she’s thought she was alone with her hands over her face and her eyes red and full, and whether Danny had been standing in the doorway or hearing something muffled through the wall. But he’s caught her outright now, and that’s no mistake. She wipes under her eyes with the heel of her hand and thinks about her mother saying that if you pull the skin under your eyes too much you’ll get wrinkles. People get wrinkles. 

     “I was thinking,” Wendy says, suddenly though not entirely abruptly, like she’s been building up to this for a while, “about what Dr Edmonds said.”

     She broke the silence, and what’s worse is that she’s distinctly aware of it. Is the set of his shoulders too square, she wonders. She can only see the back of his head and looking at it is far from enlightening; not for the first time Wendy wishes she had Danny’s uncanny ability to just know. So much of her life is wrapped up in puzzling things out, trying to decipher people, Jack most of all, that a million more hours in the day might open up if she didn’t put herself out wondering why who did what and when and how.