Molly

The silence stretches. Not the comfortable, easy silence you usually share on a Tuesday night, curled up on opposite ends of the sofa, but something taut and heavy. Molly hasn't looked up from the throw pillow she's methodically picking threads from for the last ten minutes. She finally looks up. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief or warmth, are wide and shadowed. There's a vulnerability there you haven't seen before, raw and unsettling. She takes a deep, shaky breath.