Professor Truman sat upstairs by the window in the dark, surveying the slick street, barely able to see anything through the window as it was pounded with water drops like pellets from a stun gun. Where was the Mrs.?
The sky was hung with thick clouds which buried the street in an ominous darkness, reminding one of a suspenseful scene from a horror movie. The grandfather clock in the hallway announced six o’clock with six rhythmic, mechanical chimes, sounding happy and innocent as usual, with its soothing bells that vibrated hypnotically through the house.
But the Mrs. was not there.
He had learned to love her. Nonsense. It had been love at first sight. Her big blue eyes that could look right through him. Her sweet, soothing, feminine voice that made his heart sing every time he heard it. Her smile. The caring touch of her hand on his back or his cheeks. The lightness of her being. If he could paint, he would paint her in rose colors and light green and gold, with a halo around her hair. She had rescued him. She would claim it was the other way around, but Professor Truman knew. Without her, he was nothing.