Jennifer London

Clara sat on the edge of the tub, smoothing the hem of her dress compulsively. Forever was an awfully long time, she thought. Forever was endless, sprawling, impossible. It was unnatural and unlikely. But maybe. Perhaps. Forever could be parties and dinners and clinking wine glasses. It could be laughter and snuggles and warm touches in the dark. For a moment the murmur of voices outside the bathroom door didn’t sound quite so ominous. But a memory came to her, as sudden and sharp as a slap in the face: her mother and father shouting at each other, a spray…