By Linda Ganga
Part of her wanted him to stay. The other part accepted he had to go. The naive part—the idealistic part—believed him when he said he was an artist. She knew not to try to make him stay. Just a little longer. She stared at his profile. He, at the ceiling. She studied his bones; his eye, a turquoise stone.
She reached. He slapped her hand, “You trying to break my neck?”
She rolled away rubbing her wrist. Made portraits of him. Every day.
One day, she painted herself into his third eye and left.