Him, with a new girl. You see the resemblance between her and your former self – a full-blooded whirlwind bursting with youth and life.
Had you been honest with yourself, you’d have seen tonight coming. He left you a husk of your bubbly self. You’re as pale as he is, as close to death before he’s had a drink; you can’t provide the life-force he needs any longer.
New Girl may think this is what she wants. Didn’t you? She’ll come to regret her choice soon.
She counts the money and checks whether it’s all real. All he does, meanwhile, is play with his Glock while putting on his tough guy face.
Nothing missing – she gives him the tiniest of nods. He pushes the crate towards the buyers. They wait for the buyers’ taillights to fade into the horizon before they hit the road, going in the opposite direction.
Briefly, she allows herself to wonder how long it’ll take until reports of a mass shooting in this area hit the news.
But it’s too late for her to develop a conscience.
Everyone has chipped in because the class is quite expensive. Which is why I feel I need to make an effort. And believe me, it is an effort. I don’t want to take my time and execute my strokes in a mindful fashion. I know they meant well but this is the worst present ever.
‘Still illegible,’ one of the nurses remarks. ‘Aren’t you halfway through by now?’
That’s just the thing – the one thing I’ve learnt in the last few weeks, incidentally. Calligraphy practice doesn’t have much of an influence on penmanship. My handwriting is as bad as ever.