moments stretch into minutes. “Why didn’t you go off on me in there?” “Lost steam, I guess,” is her quiet response. “I have a hard time believing that.” “Because I know you well enough to know you’ll be beating yourself up about it anyway. I don’t need to say anything. You’ll shoulder your family guilt and any guilt I give you like you’re a modern-day Sisyphus or something. And you were probably too busy trying to bang the bartender to watch the race anyways.”
