Vignettes

Summer will come eventually. Summer always does. Even when it’s mealy mouthed and sulks in corners, it comes.

In the last four days, she has met two people without front teeth. She hopes they lost them in a fight.

In a half shuttered dream, a woman lies masturbating on a bed. Glimpsed through a window, bathed in the yellow light of an incandescent bulb, her hand dips down between the dunes of her thighs. A shutter slides and now the woman lies masturbating in pixels, bathed in a yellow light made from ones and zeros.

Once she saw a painting trapped behind glass in a pedestrian underpass somewhere in Japan. The bleached skull of a sheep on velvet, it bore a passing resemblance to a skull she’d seen on the moors. Picked clean and weathered. Wind blasted. Two different sheep, and neither one authentic.

When I am dead, she said, I want you to scatter my burnt and ground up bones to the wind. A burial at sea, cast out beyond reach. Not a place where you will come and mourn, droning on about how you miss me. I loved you in life, but I won’t need you in death.

 

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