Well, Harold said. All right then. He looked around. At the kitchen walls and the old enameled stove and through the door into the dining room where the yardlight fell in through the curtainless windows onto the walnut table. It feels empty already, don't it.
Empty as hell, Raymond said.
I wonder what she's doing now. I wonder if she's all right.
I hope she's sleeping. I hope her and that little girl are both sleeping. That'd be the best thing.
Yes, it would. Harold bent and peered out the kitchen window into the darkness north of the house, then stood erect. Well, I'm going up, he said. I can't think what else I'm suppose to do.
I'll be up shortly. I want to sit here a while.
Don't fall asleep down here. You'll be sorry for it tomorrow.
I know. I won't. Go ahead on. I won't be long.
Harold started out of the room but stopped at the door and turned back once more. You reckon it's warm enough in that apartment of hers? I been trying to think. I can't recollect a thing about the temperature in them rooms she rented.
It seemed like it was warm enough to me. When we was in there it did. If it wasn't I guess we'd of noticed it.
You think it was too warm?
I don't guess so. I reckon we'd of noticed that too. If it was.
I'm going to bed. It's just goddamn quiet around here is all I got to say.
Oldest romance writer in the world dies aged 105. Books #124 and #125 to be published next year(Dec 10 2013) Ida Pollock, author of more than 120 books, and believed to be the world's oldest romantic novelist, has died at the age of 105.