A very moving piece, with a poignant final line.


He scanned the contents of her desk out of curiosity, quietly assessing what her life had been like in his absence. There was only a notebook, a pen, and a mildly abused ashtray. He pondered what genius came up with the idea of crafting such an aesthetically pleasing object to contain the remains of cancer inducing dust.

She sat with her legs crossed, knees close to her chest, her mismatched socks stood out brightly against her otherwise plain dress. With a book in one hand and a cigarette in the other, she was attractive in a damaged goods kind of way. Lips you’d like to kiss but only infrequently. The sort of girl you’d allow to spend the night, but couldn’t wait for her to leave in the morning.

He wished he could say they sat there in a comfortable silence like the old days, but things had changed. She’d…

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