“Why do you need to go for a walk, Michelle?” Diane asked darkly. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. His grief was so audible, that it attracted the notice of some of the bystanders, and Thames was obliged to beg him to control it. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. He lowered her neck before her, and she noticed a bizarre urge to bite him rising from her mind like an itch. His literary instincts were reviving. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. Perhaps an hour later he would begin again.
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