She drops her hands.
Looks at me with wet eyes and a mouth that's trying to hold steady.
"I have a three o'clock."
"I know."
"I can't. I can't cry through the CBC."
"Then don't."
"Gray."
"Go do your interview."
"I."
"Go do your interview, Simone."
She nods.
Walks back toward the cabin.
Stops at the step.
Doesn't turn around.
"I'm not doing that to you. What you think I'm doing. I'm not."
"Okay."
"I need you to know that."
"Okay."
She goes inside.
I pick up the axe.
I swing it.
Three o'clock comes and goes. I hear her voice through the window. Steady again. She is a woman who does her job. She is a woman who files a piece with tears still drying on her face. I admire her and I'm furious at her in the same breath.
At five she comes to the door.
"I'm going to sleep in my room tonight."
"Okay."
"I just need to think."
"Okay."
"Gray."
"Go. Think."
She goes upstairs.
