Tuesday, September 7

Sometimes, it's hard to get through the week.
Sometimes, it's not.
This was not one of those times.

She is standing in front of me, far enough away that i have to imagine i can smell the electric heat burning through her satin skin, but still close enough to hold a gun to my head. I'm looking down the barrel of her lips, watching sweat idle down her hot asphalt neck toward the scarf hanging loosely from her neck. She's not looking at me, her eyes are closed. The scarf is blue and brilliant under the streetlight. I bought it for her, back when i thought she was mad. She was a right peach then, even with having thrown me out. Literally.
She's still not looking at me, but her eyes are open now. She's talking, but i'm not listening. We had our parting words some time ago. No need to drag it out. My eyes wander again. Her coat is long and black, cinched tightly around her waist. She looks like an hourglass with no bottom; the sand keeps falling, but there's nothing there to catch it. Time is running out, as they say.
The large silver buttons of her coat are angled in just the wrong way; the glare from the streetlight causes me to avert my eyes. She mistakes my aversion for shame and adjusts her level of scathing wrath accordingly. She must have been chastising me for some past transgression. There are many things she could have said, but none of them would have mattered to me.
A chill breeze has picked up, but she's still sweating. Poor thing. Must be nervous. Her arm is shaking slightly. The gun is getting heavier and heavier as she piles more and more meaning and reason on top of it, rationalizing and justifying what she believes to be something to die for. I believe her, this is worth dying over.
My attention falters. I don't care what she's saying, i just want this to be over. I look her over once more, trying to find an details i missed. I find some.
Her shoes are red. Her nails are red. Her knuckles are white around the grip. Her gun is loaded. Her eyes are...wet.
Her heart is still mine, i can see it written out in tears across her cheek. She loved me with all her heart.
I wish i'd told her i didn't have one.

And that's when i shot her.

I light a cigarette and let the smoke scrawl obscenities along my throat on it's way out, cutting deep with ragged claws.
Damn. It's not even Monday yet.


Sometimes, you can never tell.

12 comments:

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  2. good work coming up with something everyday. i tried writing everyday and i nearly lost it. and i have a bleeding writing degree!

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  3. What makes you think i haven't lost it?

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  4. very tense

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  5. Pretty dark man...

    "And that's when i shot her."

    Looking forward to more.

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