Depression is NOT sexy.
I held the blade to my husband’s throat, watching as his olive-green eyes drifted closed.
‘Hurry up, Ingrid,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be late.’
I scraped the white foam from his square jaw.
‘Where’s my suit?’
‘It’s laid out on the bed,’ I replied, smoothing the razor down his cheek. ‘I finally got that stain out of your white shirt.’
‘Lipstick, I think.’
His Adams apple bounced in his throat. ‘It must have been yours.’
‘It was red.’
‘And? What’s your point, Ingrid?’
My hand trembled. One little slip and I could make those crimson stains warranted, like a splatter of paint on a clean canvas. ‘I don’t wear red.’
‘Yes, you do. You were wearing it the day I met you!’
‘That was years ago . . . I can’t believe you remember.’
‘Of course I remember!’ His incredulous eyes found mine in the…
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