The smell of his rot permeated the stolid apartment air and wrapped fingers around Anne's neck until she could not breathe.
Doubled over on bathroom tile. What had she done?
(She smiled at the familiar shirts on the rack. At the closeness of his shoulder to her waist. Sitting next to him. Wanting to touch. Loving, always loving him.)
And then she shrouded his sunshine face.
* * *
When she was young, Gina had had a lover who fell apart. She told Anne.
He was put together all wrong and fell apart. Organs tucked in willy-nilly and knocking on his ribcage. A weak heart. Beautiful skin like milk and bad blood rushing beneath, rushing to the surface. Poisoning him.
It seemed that all the care of crafting had been left to his mind and his black eyes that looked out so angrily at the world. And then softly, soft. Like the trailing off and cracking of his voice. Or his lips on her shoulder.
* * *
(His face in the morning light. His lovely sunshine face. Beaming and searching for her answer.)
And Anne, oh Anne, she prattles and evades and curls up next to the rotting carcass and fills her mouth with flies.
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