just enough pathos

It was all good, she said. She blinked slowly. She mentioned the pain but not the slow, throbbing drumbeat that accompanied it. Nor the voices that had to be curbed every night. Nor the little things that had to go on happening, daily things, you know. Just the usual stuff. Just the stirring, the brushing, the waking up, the sloth, the tea peppered with a just a tiny pinch of cinnamon powder, the looking ahead. She mentioned nothing at all.