Murder. She wrote.

‘One winter evening, I made a heap of my losses, doused them in old letters, forgotten songs and lingering smells. I sat arms folded across my chest, waiting for twilight to set them ablaze and watched how like smoke signals on distant prairies the plumes spelt out your name. There’s no escaping you sometimes.

The next time I tried arranging them chronologically and alphabetically, bound them in leather and lined them on mahogany shelves. I traced my fingers along their spines, caressing some, flicking dust off others. I sneezed, the only other time I allowed my heart to skip a beat, after you.

Dog eared and yellow, I hoped they would crumble with a touch. But they remain poised, waiting for the next check out card to be stamped.’

Desperate now, I walk around with them, leash firmly in tow, looking for an opportune moment when I can surreptitiously drop the leash and hear them yelp as they’re run over. And the sound of a wailing ambulance will pierce my ears drowned only by the murmur of your name.

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