Monday, 27 May 2013

Heart in the dumpster

           It all started one rainy Tuesday afternoon. The wind was whistling through my ears and a flurry of yesterdays snow was stalling my feet as I walked down the Fifth Avenue of Manhattan, New York in my denim jacket, which was obviously unsuitable for the weather. For a moment, I even thought that I’d prefer Brooklyn’s muggy summer. Under this hideous rain, I felt like an ablutophobic cat. I wished I had stayed for a few more hours. But I’d prefer being soaked as an innocent man from the outside than to take the risk of getting arrested.

            You’re now probably wondering what I was doing that Tuesday afternoon in the most crowded district of New York with a risk of getting arrested. To be honest: I hadn’t the slightest idea. I frequently checked if my moccasins had any bloodstains on them. After half an hour of avoiding suspicious and ignorant eyes of all the bimbos and the so-called successful businessmen of New York, I had finally reached the café where we were supposed to meet. I didn’t know what we would do. I didn’t know where we would go. I didn’t even know if she’d show up or not. After exactly 38 minutes of waiting, I ordered a bottle of scotch. I had already drunk half of the bottle and was questioning the accuracy of my actions when she finally decided to show up. She was wearing a blue V-neck sweater with unmatching brown sunglasses. She was the only thing I thought I loved in this dreadful city.

            When she was instinctively approaching my table, I knew that she hadn’t noticed the terrified expression on my face. As she started to talk about what she did that day, the images of the dead body; now lying at the dumpster haunted my soul and with her ignorant guffaw, I knew I didn’t mean anything to her. Was I going to spend the rest of my life trying to dodge the law for this wench? How could she not care about me after all that I've done for her? As she lit a cheap cigarette and blew the smoke in my face, I ran out of the café. I ran to the countryside. I ran to the woods. I ran until it was too hard for me to avoid reality.

I had killed my wife for a prostitute.

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