he makes her climb the ladder while he sizes up just where to hang the picture he's just picked up from the framer's shop. she's anxious to get back to her novel. the one she bought at the used bookstore the day before yesterday when it was still the weekend and they'd been sipping cold coffee and holding hands like new lovers. like friends do before life presents itself as an unsteady obstacle always trying to get in the way. just hold on, he says. and she listens to his familiar voice and the shuffle of his feet carrying the weight of her memory of his body into the next room, i forgot to grab the hammer. she holds the nail against the grey textured wall. licks her lips. knowing that patience often writes the best endings to stories she wouldn't have known how to finish on her own.