she'd forgotten how to hate him, and in many ways it made him less real. a book she'd heard about but never read.
in truth, it wasn't that.
the problem, boiled down to its most dangerous form: she'd learned to love him.
it had been an educational experience. she'd made all the old mistakes and she'd made up some new ones, just for him.
she watered his plants and laughed at his jokes and pretty soon the bluejays flew south and all that was left was a flurry of unanswered calls and the sensation that she missed everything.
he always tasted like spices.
on New Year's day, she walked through the empty streets. charred remnants of fireworks and a year gone by, and she couldn't remember his mother's maiden name. it was a sign, it had to be.
her heels clicked on the sidewalk and she wondered, "is this it?"
tragedy never holds on to memory.
and memory is such a fickle lover.
El último round, la eternidad
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