The scene opens in a nondescript restaurant in the hometown I’ve avoided.
After nearly a decade of fragmented flashbacks, I see you walk inside.
I sit across from you.
You smile-- I don’t.
I remind you who I am, what you did- rather- what you took from me.
And just as realization flickers across your face,
I plunge my steak knife into your femoral artery.
You’re rapidly losing blood.
And I’m feeling like slow dancing to Tevin Campbell with my lover.
And I’m feeling like the first time I can finally wear that perfect sweater in October.
And I’m feeling like birthday cake:
chocolate with strawberry icing, that my dad made every year- shaped like a heart.
And I’m feeling like bottomless mimosas, eggs benedict, and remember when? stories from college.
and you’re dead.