Fiona was now snoring, and Sam's heart felt heavy with concern. He gently buckled her back into place and drove her home.
It was probably the longest drive Sam had ever made. The only noises to be heard being the other rare car, the main sights to be seen were the low lit street lamps and the blind of oncoming cars. Fiona's hand suddenly caressed Sam's softly, tumbling in a turn, and he felt alive again for a moment.
The tires made the typical soft scrape of, "I'm home" in the driveway as he parked the car. The silence struck him yet again now that there was no Cadillac engine purr. He ever so gently, picked Fiona up, wishing desperately not to disturb her, fearing all sorts of things, including a typical punch.
'This has to be the most easy time I've ever hard with Fiona.' He gently laughed at himself, moving her limp sleeping body. He took every step cautiously through the dark house. When they got to the bedroom, he lifted the comforter carefully and slid her into the bed, tucking her in slightly and moving the wisps of hairs way from her head, caressing it and gazing into her peaceful expression in the moonlight.
In the morning Fiona found her inordinately comfortable. Her head already starting to pound, she squeezed her down comforter and recognized it as her own. Her vision was a bit fuzzy, but she noticed Sam sitting in the chair in the corner, looking quite silly. The picture of masculinity sitting in her girlie woven chair with organza flourishes, looking after her after a drunken night. But isn't that the way it had always been? Fiona could run herself into the fire, on accident or more often on purpose, and Sam would always be there, silent or present, called for or refused, to pick her back up and set her right again.
Sam rubbed his face in exhaustion and concern, as the sun peeked into her bedroom. He wasn't quite sure what to do, but he was satisfied that she was okay. He slowly snuck out. Fiona peered over from her blanket, but didn't have the strength yet to object or even lift herself up.
When Fiona finally found the courage to get out of bed, she brushed herself off and wandered into the kitchen. She squinted her eyes from the haze in the kitchen title and then noticed a now-cold omelette, and a cup of coffee with a small note from a torn piece of paper under it. She picked it up and read:
"Sorry, Sam."