Red Winged Black Bird on a fence post in a field.

Long Walks


Category: prose

I try not to date the mentally ill, but sometimes I miss the signs. Those signs are all there. She liked dried out roses, film noir, and long walks on the median. She was one in a million trying to become a statistic.

?Your place or mine?? I asked.

?We better make it your place,? she said, ?The world put me in my place a long time ago.? She slammed back the last of her coffee and dragged me to the door.

I got no sleep that night, if you know what I mean. That?s right, she wouldn?t shut up. The whole night she went on and on about how pointless life was and how nothing mattered.

I slowly deflated until, by sun up, I was flat and misshapen on the floor.

She muttered something about being exhausted and crawled off into the closet.

When I got back from work I didn?t see her anywhere. I even made a cursory look into the closet. All I found in there were piles of old clothes, old shoes, and the other piled crap you find in a bachelor?s closet.

A friend set me up with some work out of town for a week and a half. When I got back, that?s when I noticed the smell. I figured a rat died in the wall or something. I called the super.

?And you expect us to believe you?? asked the detective.

?Well,? I said, ?Let?s here you tell a better one.?

Comments (2)
You gotta pick the right guy to do the job.
Go out now and vote for LibertyBob.
...and in domestic news, research has shown that your father left because you were such a disappointment.