It’s January, and I lost track of time and a wrinkled letter dated September; we did a night or two in the back seat of her hummer.
I found the best of her composure, unfolding a blank sheet of paper.
Roses I never sent arrived on the doorstep I hadn’t bought.
A bill charged my account declined payment.
I lied and didn’t deny I purchased the flowers, but her secret admirer made a lethal mistake. He left his address on the records. I traveled to meet him, and now I’m above him with blood dripping from an upraised knife I wield.

(© 2021 AC)

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