Lucas

The soft aroma of genuine regret, the way she hangs her head like a child being scolded, the practiced manner in which she seems spontaneous with her words, it almost works. Smearing darkness across her face, shivering from the chill of an enemy's ghost, she offers me another nicotine apology. I've taken her poison before, but the kick isn't worth the comedown. Find a new vein, sweetheart. This one's tapped out. So I leave. Another sidewalk suicide limping toward the ever after. It should have felt good to go. Heavenly fanfare and the cosmic reach-around. I settle for a chorus of sirens and a gentle pat on the shoulder from the evening's drizzle. It's more than I deserve. Soon, I'm home. My answering machine is haunted by the last straws and you'll be sorries of a dozen jilted lovers. What's one more? I'd exorcise them all, purge the innocent device of such venomous and loathsome energies, but it's cheaper than therapy. A private gallery full of electric echoes of my most glaring flaws and most painful failures, forever at my fingertips. Have to buy a new tape soon. I make a note of it.