Since I’ve missed posting my six sentences the last two Sundays, here are twelve sentences for Monday, October 28:
The museum has only just opened when we get there, and the marble corridors leading to the exhibit are all but empty. The space is so quiet I can hear our footsteps, each distinct – my father’s long, brisk gait, my slower step, and your light, near-silent tread.
You stop reading the plaques on each display after the first room, wandering instead from room to room, flirting lazily with the museum guards. One of them, the young one, has very white teeth. I worry you’re mad at me.
In a glass display case, a dozen intercept sheets from Bletchley Park, marked by the delicate strokes of the analyst’s pencil. I start crying at the sight of them, I don’t know why. I keep thinking how precious that paper was, how tenderly it had been made to yield its secrets. I rub my fingers against my eyes, hoping nobody sees, but you aren’t even there to notice.
That’s when I notice you are gone.
After a little while my father notices, too, and when he asks me where you are, I shrug helplessly. “I think she went to the bathroom,” I say.