“I don’t love you anymore,” she said. “Maybe never did.”
“Well, aren’t you going to say something?”
“Yeah,” he said. “When did this epiphany occur? Was it when I passed that car from Massachusetts on the right, or when I fell asleep during the ballet I paid $400 for you to attend? Or was it…”
“Stop,” she said.
“I just think I deserve an explanation why the woman I love stopped loving me. If you ever did.”
“I think you know.”
“Don’t you think my killing him was enough?”
“No, Mother never did a thing to stop him.”
Jumping Day 2 of my Poem-a-Month challenge for Day 3’s call for a 100-word Drabble. (Love that word. A 50-word story is a dribble, by the way.) I write a lot of 100-word poems, even published a collection of them called One Hundred Beats A Minute, so I turned my poet’s hat around backward and dove into the shallow end of the prose pool. I’d set aside this title a long time ago, with no story or even story idea attached. But the combination of inspiration, obsession and compulsion have a strange effect on me when I hit this chair.