Klempner
I can’t be bothered to turn the light on. As the day fades, I sit, cradling a glass in my palm. The heat of my hand warms the brandy and the fumes are heady, but I don’t drink.
Two photos sit together; both women red-headed, green-eyed. Both beautiful.
Might-have-beens and never-weres flit through my brain; sweet memories made bitter by time and the toxic reality.
All those years…
Made my own bed…
Mitch…
I think of her, as she is now. Older than the image carved into my brain, but her hair still red, with that hint of gold. Her eyes like green gems. Her skin like milk tinted with rose petals.
Terrified of me…
…
…
Conners…
He lied…
… beat her…
Inside me, the fire burns; clean and bright, consuming, banishing the darkness.
After a while, I slam the glass down, stand a
