Six lines
I cut my wife last night. Three long slow smooth movements of a #15 scalpel. A perfect line of blood rose slowly to the skin.
Three lines, matching my three lines, marking four years.
We stayed up talking, comforting the cat, and eating pumpkin pie until one in the morning. The usual late night, post-scene languid ramblings about surgical tool preferences, gender theory bullshit, and diffident philosophy.
Happy anniversary, the Sméagol. Life is good.
Three lines, matching my three lines, marking four years.
We stayed up talking, comforting the cat, and eating pumpkin pie until one in the morning. The usual late night, post-scene languid ramblings about surgical tool preferences, gender theory bullshit, and diffident philosophy.
Happy anniversary, the Sméagol. Life is good.