I tug on a black sweater and a black-and-white tartan skirt. I smooth black leggings from my toes to my hips and slide into the only pair of heels I own.
And there’s Christopher’s voice: Damn. You look hot.
Oh, I know. I know he can’t see me, that he’s in the bathroom getting prepared for my funeral, yeah, yeah, yeah. That doesn’t stop me from hearing his voice the way I heard it for years. And of course now I idealize him. You know how the living romanticize the dead? The dead return the favor.
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2 comments:
Bim bam. Damn, that last couple of lines are swuee-eeet!
Thanks, dude!
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