I Missed My Husband

The only bone I'd ever broken was in my left hand years ago, in arguably opposite circumstances. Bernardo Azo was still poaching eggs then, and I hadn't yet met Addy. Now they were both dead. And I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone to sleep holding my husband's hand. He was likely taking his break now, smoking outside with his grad students. Picturing him made me want the cigarette I was holding.