Ethan
I'd already eaten dinner; the house was quiet, tidy, perfect. As always. Too tidy.
I put the glass of water down on the counter and looked at the clock. Eight and twenty.
I thought of her without intending to, New York, her apartment.
The long day I knew she was going to have. And the question came by itself:
Has she had dinner?
I stood still for a few seconds, leaning against the bar. Clara, when she is emotionally exhausted, does not cook. She does not ask for food. She doesn't improvise... She locks herself in, goes to bed early.
She pretends she doesn't need anything. Just like when she was at her mother's house.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Will she be okay?
I didn't hesitate too much, I took the keys and left. On the way to the Italian restaurant I repeated to mysel
