The Chemistry of Tears
Dead, and no one told me. I walked past his office and his assistant was bawling.
“What is it Felicia?”
“Oh haven’t you heard? Mr. Tindall’s dead.”
What I heard was: “Mr. Tindall hurt his head.” I thought, for God’s sake, pull yourself together.
“Where is he, Felicia?” That was a reckless thing to ask. Matthew Tindall and I had been lovers for thirteen years, but he was my secret and I was his. In real life I avoided his assistant.
Now her lipstick was smeared and her mouth folded like an ugly sock. “Where is he?” she sobbed. “What an awful, awful question.”
I did not understand. I asked again.
“Catherine, he is dead,” and thus set herself off into a second fit of bawling.