Two weeks passed without too much event. They held their own dreamy rhythm, their own sort of pattern, the way some weeks just do.
Some periods of time are a life lived in miniature, a set of habits that feel so natural, a reality that feels like it could last forever.
Prometheus went back to work, as did Anne. The two didn’t talk much: just business.
Prometheus focused on his stocks, only stopping by the garage for maybe an hour a day.
The jizz-like substance stopped growing, for a reason no one could really figure out. Bits were shipped to several labs, to no avail. Anne kept studying it. Curiosity compelled her.
Shade wasn’t anywhere to be found. Prometheus checked in with the cops every day, to ask what they’d found out about Shade’s disappearance. The answer was always the same: nothing.
Anne knew Shade was dead. There was no real evidence to that effect, but Anne just didn’t have any hope left to give.
Near the end of the two weeks, Sharise asked what Anne’s Dad thought about the fact that his daughter was a crazy psycho.
“He doesn’t think about me,” Anne said.
Sharise chose not to pursue the matter.