I'm not angry but I've never been above it,
You see through me don't you?
Five years ago today, and he never expects it to be so hard. Five years ago, and he doesn't think at all, doesn't even feel; doesn't know the rain as it soaks him to the skin. He doesn't know her hand on his shoulder, doesn't hear her gasp or her choked sobs.
(Five years ago he was standing by the river, staring at the skyline: staring at his wife's death.)
He's by the river now; the skyline still looks empty but there are no flames licking the sky, no smoke blanketing the city. His eyes are dark, his fists are clenched, resting on the barrier between him and the edge of the bank.
She stands seven feet behind him, her hands pushed deep into the pockets of her coat. She can see her breath; she can't feel her toes. He needs her here, she knows, but she doesn't speak and neither does he. She's tactful, he's stubborn: that's how they've always been. He was angry; she was sorry; she was scared, she remembers now - she doesn't admit it.
He was angry, and he'd yelled, angry that he was helpless, angry that he couldn't breathe with all this fucking smoke, angry that his fucking wife was killed by fucking terrorists. He'd trashed his living room that night.
Five years later and she's still tactful, he's still stubborn; he's not angry anymore. Not angry, he says, just tired, tired of it all.
She knows he's still scared.