Was it the heat? No - it could not have been. The temperature of the room had been precisely calibrated to 24 degrees Celsius by the newly installed split design air conditioner.
Was it a bad dream? Hormonal imbalances? Pre-heart attack?
No. Terrence ran through his memory of the previous night's events, and it came down to the manifestation of anxiety over a now seemingly trivial concern. It had not been trivial yesterday, but the short passage of night had somehow rendered it trivial, the way a cup of hot coffee is neutralized by room temperature over just a brief span of time.
Teresa had made an offhand remark to Terrence, and in his particularly sensitive reception of the words, reproached her for the lack of consideration and tact. Indeed, that initial harmless spark was the only prerequisite needed to kindle a much graver and involved altercation - as Terrence recalled, one accusation led to the next, and as their inhibitions continued to lower into new depths and uncharted territories, insults were exchanged, and verbal jousts were struck with merciless strength, with intentions of not only victory, but also damage and injury.
How had it become such a rapid downward spiral from what had been a cheerful and amiable relation just days, if not hours before!
Where is the anchor, with which to retrieve the stray ship from lost seas?
Where are the roots, on which the momentous trunk of the tree can depend upon, so that branches can proliferate and leaves and flowers bloom?
Where is the keyboard, on which the (control-z)
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