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I assumed he meant the email account's sent file - not just the one on his phone. I should have known better.As I suspected, his wife had wormed her way into his email online, and is checking it regularly. Of course she sees those messages to me. Of course all hell breaks loose, yet again. I hadn't seen the messages until much later, and so I hadn't responded to them, but it's bad enough without that technicality.He says he needs to go dark. I agree. I delete and block him from my chat program.*****Losing Patrick like this has been difficult. I'm so used to having him to talk to that not having him there is a huge hole in my day.I'd be flat-out lying if I didn't acknowledge that the funk I've been in for the past month isn't, in large part, due to this relationship ending. I know I've been mourning the loss of him; I feel the loss to my core.He knew me. He knew my thoughts, my quirks, my body... sometimes better than I did. He has been my best friend, he's made my days bearable,. Niccólo was a dark haired man in his mid forties wearing a ragged alb, chausible and stole over his peasant shirt and trousers, his son Boetio was dressed likewise and younger son Silvestro, wearing only an alb, held the missal ready to begin the Mass. Abbot Agostino took his place, and the twenty year old Boetio, a mirror of his father, began: ‘In nomine Patris, et Filiis, et Spiritui Sanctis. . .’ Niccólo’s wife and her spinster sister were thick, heavy set women, their short hair contained in their headscarves, their plain, placid faces lost in prayer. The four young children, barefoot and grimy, sat and watched in awe as their brother celebrated the Eucharist. Niccólo swung the censer and beamed at his son’s flawless pronunciation of the Latin prayers. The Abbot nodded as he followed the rite, graciously receiving the host and chalice when offered. The Mass concluded and the family reverenced the altar before cleansing and putting the sacred vessels and garments away and.
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