I stared at the marker.
Were you really so unhappy—so lost? So alone? Was it really so hopeless—and did you hate me so much—that you would use a piece of me—a piece of my work—to at last finish what the pills and alcohol couldn’t? Had I abandoned you to that extent, my love? And did any of it—any of it—ever really happen?
I looked at the granite and the semi-frozen grass—the insufficient inscription, the red, wet roses in cellophane.
Where are you, my love, and just as importantly, where am I? Because I no longer care about what I cared about—and so fiercely! while you were here; by which I mean, what I took from you and gave to Sandy Chain, what I thought was my duty but was in fact only selfishness.
I looked up, the rain spotting my eyes, to find the clouds virtually racing.
Where a
