This is how he lives, this is his home.
If she sees one man, how that he lives, maybe she is unabashed, diving into his things. She goes inside his home, where she pauses, she stands up to wish him well, only to her full essentials.
Having not taken into account his words, she doesn’t hear his words, but of a life she lives, a life she remembers, she doesn’t know words.
I’ll tell ya one thing though. That she lives up there in the sticks and there’s not one damn thing anybody can do about it.
He sees her coffeemaker was different than his, this after he pays her a visit. He usually does, he visits her in the early A.M. His coffee pot wasn’t the same as hers, like the one person’s whose life he shares, the one he had at his home where him and his wife lives.
“I like you, your preying eyes and mind and your preying hands!” She texts him in a message. This was almost daily.
“Are you pretty today,” he texts her too, as these were his brief messages. These messages almost always were never answered, each having their own terse meaning.