by Jonathan Papernick

It’s as if she really has died this time, as if those pills you worried so much about finally did their merciful job, washed down with a glass tumbler of white wine, her slim body laid out in perfection on her unmade bed for eternity.
But you know she is still out there, like lightning knifing the horizon, close enough to stir you awake at four AM, but far enough that you know you can never touch her. She has disappeared from your world, those offhand texts which assured you were never alone — I put a sign next to the dead squirrel saying: free squirrelI saw some new gluten-free cookies and I thought of youDid you ever wonder why Annabel Chong didn’t get her teeth fixed?I’m afraid I’m turning into my motherI wish I liked you more.
No goodbye, nothing at all.
You messaged and you messaged and you messaged and finally you typed: Fuuuuuuuck! Really? Because what else could you say that wouldn’t make you ashamed for caring so much? You removed her number from your phone, but it still auto-fills when you type the letter D with this warning in place of her name: Don’t be a schmuck. Read More

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