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Show 57 husband -- boring, half the time preoccupied. And so he said that he was just trying to tell me that if I needed to leave him, I could go. He was scared. He was scared to love. You're not scared to love. But you seem absolutely terrified that ..." "I know what you're going to say," Hunt had said. "Then I won't finish," Martha McAllister had said. "I'll be done in another half hour." "Fine." And she had reassumed her pose. And he had finished. He'd turned it to her. "Here!" he'd said. And she had stared, stared, her eyes wider than any eyes Hunt thought he had ever seen. He knew; he understood in watching that she felt deep connection, deep gratitude, deep pleasure. ". . . It's me," she'd said. "I know," Hunt had said. "No: I mean, it's me. It's me." "I know." And she'd been crying. And Hunt, unable to just watch her, had approached, touched, held. "Hunt - it's me," she'd said. "And I'm beautiful!" And Hunt had nodded. And she had buried her head into his shoulder. And they had stood that way for perhaps five or ten minutes. "You'd better get dressed," Hunt had finally said. "Yes," she'd said. And she had, sniffling, done that. And Hunt had said: "Here - have a piece of this. This is fresh wholewheat bread. I forgot I had it." "Thank you," she'd said. And Hunt had said, "You're welcome." |