“It isn’t as if anyone got hurt,” Lynette huffed. Her legs were crossed, and she kicked one foot idly as she sat at the bar in the kitchen. She periodically dipped a finger into her wine glass and traced a design onto the black marble of the countertop. Every time her hand lifted from the surface, the system’s robotic hand whipped into action and efficiently wiped away the mess. She seemed to find this amusing.
Alwyn threw his hands into the air, and then brought them back to massage his temples. He was sitting across the room from her, letting the leather couch in the sitting area envelop his frustration. He didn’t want to look at her face – didn’t want her to see the utter exhaustion in his own – but, also because he didn’t want to get any closer to the thing that stood by her.
The thing that wore his face.
The terror of walking into his own home to find an exact repli