[WP] Write a story that involves a twist, but the twist is only revealed by reading italic words scattered throughout the text

I woke up this morning to the rain on the window. It's a Sunday. I still remember the time when a rainy Sunday was the best day that I could ask for: a lazy morning tucked into the middle of a weekend. Soft thunder in the distance, soft light on the curtains. I would read the news on my phone and eventually, when he woke up, walking to the diner down the street to get breakfast and coffee.

Emphasis on he. I still can't think about his face, his name, his person, , without the feeling of a tiny shock, like the insolent sting of a wasp you didn't hear buzzing nearer. You swat it away, move on, but it still hurts, whether you ignore it or not.

We sat in that diner for close to two hours on some rainy Sundays. I talked about my week, and things that were in the news. He laughed about my coworkers and friends, and I laughed about his crazy new ideas. Fishtanks on leashes for walks. What does this treaty mean? Oh no he didn't. Chemotherapy-skydiving. Ah. I didn't mean to think the C-word. Sting.

Today, I force myself to walk past the diner. For the past few weeks, I'd gone out of my way to take a different path to the library, but yesterday I thought about how much longer it actually was. The old route, up Hibiscus, left to Center, is nicer anyway. And what sort of fucked-up person names a street Memory Lane, anyway? "Oh, just go all the way down Memory Lane, we're the last house on the left!". Trite suburban bullshit.

I'm lost in my thoughts when I run into Shelbe, my boss. I rouse my wits and try to stay on guard. Yes, the time off has been so nice. I'm holding up well. Just lots of studying. Sorry I can't help more, I know this time of year has been bad. Distracting me the whole time is expression she has on her face. Pitying, sweet, sad, supremely glad she's not me. What? Oh, they're going to have a party when I get back. That should be brutal. Is she going to wrap this up soon? I feel the wasp circling the back of my neck, looking to sting. Wasps only sting out of spite, and they don't even have the grace to die, like honeybees do. They don't defend anything, or work for their hive, they just sting because they have stingers. Banal pleasantries, good-bye Shelbe. See you later. Much, much, later. Did I say that out loud? I don't think so. Her change in expression is inscrutable. Who knows.

Bridget says hello in the library. It's so good to see her, and she's put aside a seat by the window. I'd call it mine, if I thought that I would actually be okay with the concept of holding on to something and not destroying it, but clearly that can't be the case. Bridget asks how I'm doing today. I love that she asks that, in some form, every day. Explicitly how I am today, not how I am in general. In general, I'm doing pretty shitty. Anyone can see that. But there are good days, and bad days, and rainy days. I say that it's a rainy day, and turn to talking about a book I'm reading. The main character is spending the day in the market in Sarajevo, as the war approaches. He and his girl comb through the valuable possessions that the dispossessed and the fled have left behind. An old Shakespeare in German, Communist dialogues from the 60's, and... Bridget has a customer. If she asks about it later, I'll tell her more. It's clearly the part of the book where The Reader feels the Good Times, and what will be lost in The Climax, before being boldly taken back, Amen God Bless.

Bridget's probably the one friend I have right now. I was never that good at them to begin with, but now I just don't care to keep them up. No maintenance, just hellos, philosophical musings, books, and coffee. My mind wanders back. He. Wander back, mind. Wander on back to this safe book about war and separation and loss and other unreal things, things that aren't right here, in August, in Bethelehem, Pennsylvania. I sigh. Only a light sting. Not even a tear. If I cared, I'd applaud myself for Oh God my mind hits it again. Bone cancer bone cancer bone cancer, loss loss gone, fuck fuck fuck. Nothing even triggered it, it was just my reward for dealing with things well for once. Tears. I pretend intense interest in a Cyndi Lauper CD and take it to the quiet listening room, and I shut the door after me. Bridget has seen, and she marks the listening room as occupied. I bury my head in my hands and try not to shake too much. I'd have to say that the thing I hate most about grief is the intense interest people take in the show. "Oh, look at all of those wasps stinging him. Isn't he dealing with it well/badly (as the case may be that day). Let's move on after gawping at him for a minute and a half too long".

A half hour passses in silence. Of course I didn't play the Cyndi Lauper CD: I'm grief-stricken, not tasteless. I wipe my eyes and go back to my book. It's not ending happily, which, in a weird way, makes me feel better. I manage to stay the whole time today, a workday's length of being presentable for society (Well... mostly presentable). I call it a day at 5. The rain has stopped. That doesn't mean anything. Symbology doesn't exist in the real world. He's still gone. There's a rainbow, and it's pretty. I look at it for a bit through the window, just thinking about beauty. He had a beauty like that. Complicated, subtle, and far, far, far too quick to fade. When I walk outside, I forget for a second where to go. Oh yes, I mutter to myself. Left. To home. Such as it is.

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