"Quit that." Her voice is sharper than she means it to be. She just feels so ungodly tired - tired of pain, tired of heartache, tired of everything that's come since she woke up. "It is what it is. Ain't your fault or mine how we feel, just what we do."

It would be so nice, she thinks wistfully, if she could believe that. If she didn't feel like every inch the whore they used to call her, pining like this after a married man. Making him pine. Shit.

She picks up her mug again, stares down at the dregs, and groans quietly. "I need more coffee."