By Nathaniel Hobbes

She woke up with tears on her cheeks. That only happens when she’s been dreaming about him. I handed her a cup of coffee and waited.  “The same dream?” I asked.

She wiped off her face and said, “No, it was different this time. I dreamed I was lying in bed sleeping. He curled up behind me and buried his face in my hair, just like he used to. He whispered he would always love me, said goodbye, then melted away.” She took a swallow of coffee. “I wonder if he’s really dead?”

“Knowing him, he died years ago of some STD in an alley in Costa Rica.”


After she left for work, I went out to the woods, to the shed, under the floorboards. She was right. He’d finally died last night.

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