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“This is so fucked,” Robby says, the laughter in his voice a cruel echo of the way he used to say that to Frank, the we’re-in-this-together exasperation of the ER’s worst days, and he drags his hand down his face to stop himself from flinching when he recognizes it. “Does your wife—”
“Don’t,” Frank says, voice sharper than Robby’s heard it all night. Sharper than he’s heard it in ten months, the sharpest it’s been since Frank had to dull the blade of it and turn it inwards to save his own hide. It’s a bark more than a spoken word, but Frank’s not a dog.
Dogs don’t talk, Robby thinks. Dogs don’t talk, and dogs don’t have wives.
It’s more fucked, Robby knows, that it’s the word wife rotating around in his skull and not her name. He knows her. He likes her, for god’s sake. He’s had holiday dinners at her table and shared fond eye-rolls across the appropriately-themed tablecloth at ridiculous things Frank’s said, that same we’re-in-this-together exasperation, and now — now Robby can’t even give her the dignity of thinking her name with his fingers in her husband’s mouth.
or: frank isn't very good at asking for forgiveness. robby isn't very good at granting it.
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Bookmark Notes:
Come back and relish more appropriately later
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Bookmark Notes:
am i old enough to read this but also I love when writers use their talent for evil. This has no business being this nasty
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