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.
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Eric Scot Tryon is the Founding Editor of Flash Frog. He writes, he says, “because he would make a lousy plumber.”
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