Why, she asked. Why.
He held her close, the stubs of his unshaven face clinging to the baby softness she has yet to grown out of. Her breathing heaved on: stertorous, asking; ready.
Who is it?
She prevailed against the drought, drowning, in fact. She was not a puppet, not to one hair of a master.
I will not. I will not deal with this any longer than need.
I don’t care. I never did.
She fought like a wild bumble bee ablaze in the contempt of her lovers and friends, too many the like. She fought like she knew this was the end. This was the end. Was it—was it not, she asked herself. I ask of you what can I do for the good of the lives I Hold in the teary fabrics of my life, undone by my wrongs or rights. Who’s to say.
That’s it. I’m done foolin’.
She whipped it out.
Is this not what you expected? You think just cause I’m a women, you can trample me, no sign of regret, no problem? I reckon you’re wrong. Very wrong.
His face was contorting into a new figure, a new creature unknown to man.
Git down, git.
The expression of the entire situation was becoming a sort of symphony of empathetic regret. The man fought the pulls of the perpetual emotion and help his ground, washed over in surprise.
She whipped the man and whipped him.
Dead be dead.