The Cheating Hypocrite

The kettle whistles, whispering my name with a calling that everything’s as unpredictable as yesterday plays on repeat. I glanced at her bags, still by the door. The blonde hair with wet strands stuck to her face, pushed me back to the park where I’d knelt, asking for her hand in marriage.
A new boyfriend occupies the truck in the snow-covered driveway.
Its lights shine through the off-white French-imported shades.
Black eyeliner spreads her cheeks.
It was a half-grin and a kiss on the lips that brought us back to the reality that we couldn’t live without each other. I’d cheated, too, so the pot calling the kettle black made no sense.

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