“Late that afternoon Raphael stood at the window of his study, looking out over the back of his garden. He could see small blue flowers blooming along the gravel paths, but for the life of him he could not recall what their name was.
Somehow he knew that Iris would be able to name the tiny blue flowers.
He pushed the thought aside. He'd lived over thirty years without Iris in his life and never felt the lack. Yet now she was gone merely hours and he was gazing out the window, mooning after her.
He could shove her from his mind.
He must shove her from his mind.
But he still saw her tearstained face. Heard her pleading with him. Remembered her saying, "I love you."
He closed his eyes.
She was haunting him.
It was as if she were in his blood now, a part of him as surely as the veins running under his skin, the lungs that let him breathe air. She'd permeated him until he could no more separate her from himself than tear the heart from his body.
She was essential to his life.”