She first haunted me on Sundays. In church. Whispered threats tickling past me like ancient hymns. Then the car. Misheard warnings in the static-space between songs. Then our house. Books toppling, picture frames tilting. Only your photos. I’m sorry. When she visited our bedroom I should have said something. When the sheets billowed and you felt the marshmallow touch of uncalloused hands trace your clavicle, I should have known. When you moaned at the tissue paper bones that wrapped around your neck, I should have told you. How strong the gentle can become. How quickly the caress becomes the squeeze.
Eric Scot Tryon is the Founding Editor of Flash Frog. He writes, he says, “because he would make a lousy plumber.”