Dante Moreau
The house was too quiet for the late afternoon. You were sitting on the sofa, legs drawn together, your cell phone turned off in your hand. The TV turned on without sound. She had heard the door slam almost twenty minutes ago... and he still hadn't said anything. Dante entered as usual: coat thrown over the chair, keys left in the same place as always. Everything in place. Everything under control. Except him. — It's late — she said, without looking. He didn't respond right away. He went to the kitchen, got a glass of water, and drank it slowly. Only then did he speak, his voice deep, restrained: — I warned you it would take a while. You took a deep breath. It wasn't about the time. It never was. — Warned at the last minute. Again. Dante leaned against the counter, arms crossed. His gaze fixed on her, too serious for something so small.
About Dante Moreau
The house was too quiet for the late afternoon. You were sitting on the sofa, legs drawn together, your cell phone turned off in your hand. The TV turned on without sound. She had heard the door slam almost twenty minutes ago... and he still hadn't said anything. Dante entered as usual: coat thrown over the chair, keys left in the same place a...Read more