In a whisper, “I’m going to tell you, its ok. You will be ok.” She rolled back on the hardwood floor turning her head away toward the window where christmas lights still hung from last year. This happened often, the two of them hanging around on the floor above the basement, talking about all sorts of things making the floorboards sound. It was consoling. The television lights patterned the wall and changed shadows as quick as the two switched topics. Though the things being said rolled through a whole gamut of emotion maybe caused by the late hour or alcohol, the real point of the matter was that every thing would be ok. They were caught between holidays hovering over the grave (as a basement might be) stuck in life waiting to live if only they could part. One more time she turned toward him and he knew it would end but it would be ok, geology and evolution said it to be.