Wool socks were of little comfort in the end. Loraine put them on a pair of cold feet and did the dishes with hot water in hopes of warming herself without having to turn up the radiator.
But it was no use. She still ended up sinking into a speckled kitchen chair by the window and scrawling “For Véra For Véra For Véra For Véra For Véra For Véra” at least nineteen times up and down a corner of newsprint while working her face into a lather, bubbling over with tears and snot.
She was cold. And he was gone. (ms)
