When she woke up one morning, the memory of their first lovemaking suddenly occurred to her. The images behind her closed eyelids were so vivid, she couldn't tell if it had happened just moments or years ago. She remembered his gentle kisses at first, then their eager hands burning to touch each other. She could almost hear the sound of their rapid heart beating as their bodies had clashed together. She recalled the joy she had felt. Something she had never felt before and probably never will again. She remembered how alive and careless he had made her feel if only for a brief moment.

This bittersweet memory came out of nowhere. She hasn't thought of it for a very long time; not since those lonely nights in her bed when her husband left her alone without telling her anything (now she knew he had been with his lover in New York). Now it was like that summer afternoon had happened a lifetime ago, but yet she felt as if he was lying beside her, sleeping peacefully.

She never saw him sleeping. She couldn't imagine him sleeping. Only dead. In a box. His face bloody and bruised. His once kind and happy eyes terrified, gazing into nothing. She remembered him like that so well. Too well. Every detail imprinted in her mind. The only thing she saw in his eyes then was fear. Fear from losing his life. He must have suffered a lot. And then they put him in a box like a pack of meat. Like he was nobody. Only Nucky's man. They didn't know that she was waiting for him, that he was going to be a father. They didn't know that he was hers. She felt heavy tears gathering behind her eyelids. She wiped her face with the back of her trembling hand but still didn't open her eyes. If she just reached out with her arm she could touch him. He will be there. Her arm started to move slowly but suddenly she stopped. She had to cast these silly thoughts out of her mind. She quickly turned to her other side, got out of the bed and left the small bedroom, never looking back.