My Last Fiction

I was focusing on the telling black roots of her blond hair. I moved my eyes down Irene’s face taking her long and pale features in with a camel’s thirst. At her bright red lips I stopped and watched her as she poured down on me every tear she had. She could see the branch protruding from me, wide as a champagne flute. The scooter was ten feet away, still running.

We knew I was leaving soon. I told her we were eternal things, that we would come back together. Even if it took a thousand years, we would still find each other among the trillion heartbeats. She gave me that toothsome grin and cried. Irene believed me, she really did. I was 28 when I last practised to deceive.


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