Dear Dearest,
I cleaned the bathroom. We are out of mop heads though, and you have the car, so I scrubbed the floor by hand with a sponge, and it was foul. Sorry, I meant it was fowl. The baby chicks were in there, in a bucket, but they’re older now so I’ve placed them in the coop with the other whores, er, hens.
While scrubbing, I was reminded of the time that you took me in your arms and held me close, and I dropped my cleaning towel, remember that? It was a nice fall evening and the colored foliage had warmed me so. Then you told me that I had no art or talent in any field, and that you deserved better, and then you choked me until little stars appeared round the edges of my vision. Did you see the moon tonight by the way? It was ripe and heavenly.
I’ve also heard from the doctor, and as you soundly advised, I am crazy. I had only imagined that ten of our closest friends told me you were fucking other hens, er, plucking other women, and when I asked you about it, well, that was rude and I richly deserved the punch in the vagina that I received in response.
I am also grateful for the shove that leveled me and for the kicks to my kidney that followed, because now I know that when you break up with me so that you can “write,” it doesn’t mean that I then have the “right” to accept the advances of another. You’ll be relieved to hear that he broke my heart. What is a heart? Is it like art? Because if so, you may be correct. I may not have one of those either.
Did I say all of that? Goodness me. What I meant to say was that I cleaned the bathroom like you asked. Would you be a dear and purchase a mop head on the way home darling?
Yours,
Ava
Ava Joe is terrified of dogs. Oh, actually not dogs, death.
Archived at http://girlswithinsurance.com/index.php/prose/flash/221-aj-0610-dearest and shortlinked at http://frsh.in/bj
