Every Pretty Word Wayne H.W Wolfson
The place was empty. Every trace of her was gone. Everything except the bra with the broken clasp and the brandy snifter she had kept her tips in.
The cracks that ran across the ceiling birthed a fine plaster powder. It all made for an apocalyptic breakfast, eaten too fast to be fully enjoyed.
As I was getting dressed a spider crawled out of my shoe. Even without my glasses I could see her.
A spider crawled out of my shoe and I knew the fixer was dead.
We had just had drinks last night. The last thing he had said to me:
"I was thirteen when I first tasted blood, another life time ago. Ah, but lately I haven't been hungry, not any more."
If I had known.. Then, I was only half listening. I was preoccupied. Again, the boy -girl thing. It was stupid, but one way or another we all still bothered.
Why? No matter what you did, there it was. You were part of it. Muscle contractions, chemical trails and vows to be broken. The boy-girl thing with a few variations to be given to the artist and, maybe, people in power with enough imagination to use it.
Empty. That first week it rained every day. I spent half my rent check drinking with an out of work dancer named Helen.
As she lowered herself down a voice in my head said This is what we do. Her place was warmer but mine, with its empty walls amplified our howls. Empty. I will wear black. I won't ever bother changing names for fiction again. She went out to find work, leaving me money for a sandwich. Get a hold of yourself. And when I did the rain stopped.
Its very quiet now. Especially at night.
Somewhere there's a body in a puddle, that's a tear on a cheek.
Wayne H. W Wolfson
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