by Paul Fahey
It is over between us. No doubt you will take to drink when you read this, but I cannot be responsible.
I want you to understand how appalled I was to read my name in print. How could you? I, who accepted your darker side, the funeral bells tolling, that damn buzzard peering down at us while we made love. How dare you discuss our affair, mention my name in every stanza? What possessed you, dearest?
Only yesterday I was in the kitchen with Flossy. Remember her? She acted as go-between when my Herbert had gout. We were careful then, afraid others would discover our rendezvous in the cemetery behind St. Bridget's.
My God, Edgar, if you must, write about that cold slab up against your bare backside, just leave me out of it.
But I digress. I was watching Flossy sift flour, cream butter, add sugar, cinnamon and three whole eggs. Boston Crème, your favorite. But I shall stuff myself till I burst before I share one crumb with you. I never want to see or hear from you again. If you pass me on the High Street, please keep walking. I hope this letter sends you to the depths of depression.
That is my prayer. May my words haunt you forever.
No longer your,
© 2001 Paul Fahey