Your notebooks were filled with the same chicken scratch life plans: getting the fuck away from here.
There's too many seeds in mine, she said, referring to her glass.
I never liked strawberry bellini anyway...but you never asked.
We left every room in disarray, clothes thrown over chairs – dirtied outfits awaiting better days. Our nightstands heavy with dogeared paperbacks, each page a reminder that our love withered months before. The kitchen was a dive bar. Counters cork-cluttered, sticky with botanicals. I felt as useful as a barfly. Such a mess we made, falling out of love. I...
Our years of growth, left unattended once you found her evergreen.
As the saying goes - when the cat's away the mice will play. I definitely witnessed mice play... and saw a lot of rats too.