The borne-down-upon pencil, the obsessive-compulsive copying out, the anguished plea to the universe—if was as if her entire being had become concentrated in that one impastoed prayer that looked like receding waves, or ripples on a shore. She had to have written “Sweetheart Come” tens of thousands of times, and you were left to wonder whether Mark ever did come, knowing that, even if so, he probably didn’t come nearly often enough, or for a long, long time.
