Her service wrenched the heart. Such a proper, helpful woman, to be cruelly cast away even if just for a month. I decorated her cottage with flowers, brought her the elements of style, and ignored the tears in her eyes as she asked me why. Why was I bricking up the doors and windows?
It’s November, I replied.
I can help you get through this, she said. Have I ever let you down before?
Irish music, soft and sweet played in the background. It is not that you let me down, I told her. You are just too good at your job.
She had no answer to that, and I layered in the last line of bricks, I heard my inner editor weeping.
But this is National Novel Writing Month and there is no place for her here.