Jim Gilbert provides a peek into a book he is co-writing with Terry Law. Go look.
Nighttime was particularly awful. Our master suite had been a refuge in days past, especially after long trips. But now it was a prison, a pastel torture chamber. For one thing, there was the irony of needing to talk to Jan about the pain of missing her, of starting to call her name out of sheer reflex, and then swallowing the words when the reality of her absence landed on me yet again. The impulse hit me so many times, but then how do you stop a reflex? Or kill one? Worst of all there was a hole in our bed, a spot where only she belonged, where nothing else fit, especially not an unrumpled pillow. I hated the undisturbed neatness of that half of the bed.
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