He eats the lies she dishes to him across the space that separates, wingback chair and oxblood fainting sofa.
When I’d imagined my own death, I suppose everyone does sometimes, it wasn’t like this.
There is no fear more primal than that of being hunted. It’s primitive, awesome in its simplicity. The sum of your existence condensed into a binary of contingencies.
She floats on her back in a stream, drowned and beautiful. If she leaped from the side of a ferry, we’ll never know. Snuffed seven days—
Years ago, I met my true love here. I was six, he was six. Now I’m fifteen, and so is he. He waits for me on these chilly winter mornings. His lips are cold, they melt when they touch mine.
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