The Walking Dead
Marc patiently sat, watching Grace fidget with a single strand of dry hair for the hundredth time. Forty minutes had past, since she first stepped to the vanity. A sympathetic smile curled the edges of his lips.
“Shush! Don’t you say a word!” Grace combed her fingers through lack-luster, moisture-starved locks. “I can’t do a thing with this mop, today! Honey, I don’t think I’m ready. Maybe we should wait until next week.”
Marc, watched as flakes of brown ash rained down Grace’s shoulders and settled into a neat little pile around her feet. Dust encircled her head, as she turned away from the living room vanity. He gathered she was entertaining second thoughts.
“No, you look beautiful, sweetheart. Remember, your appearance isn’t what’s important, there. Mine should be the only opinion that counts, right?”
Grace’s pupil-less eyes gazed at the floor, as she twiddled…
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