Friday 56
Sunday afternoons in this house: cold ham and Songs of praise and heavy silences. It rushed up at Gina so vividly she could smell it. Everything she'd longed to get away from as a teenager, and thought in some ways she had--yet here she was, even down to the same Sunday-afternoon paranoia that she hadn't wrung enough out of the weekend as Monday approached. And the time ticking inexorably past, metronomed by the carriage clock on the 1950s slate mantelpiece. http://fredasvoice.blogspot.com