Images danced back and forth across the tube television screen, painted in monotonous black and white. Patrick's eyes burned. His teacup sat beside him, unspoiled. His fingers pressed against each other. In the dark of Teresa's room, only one sound echoed every time Patrick rewound the tape. A long sigh.No one said Charlotte's name. And by coincidence, not even Patrick had persisted in this eloquent idea. Charlotte was dead. And that young woman parading in the images wouldn't be her, never.Looking tired, worried, Teresa asked, in a soft tone, if he would switch that off and go to bed. She herself was leaving. He ignored her, asking if he could stay in her office a little longer.
Patrick - she gasped, leaning against the doorframe - that's a request. Tomorrow is a new day. Let's check this out together.