Dear John,
I know I said I couldn’t live without you. I know I was the one to find the voudoun priestess. But really, I think it was the shock and grief talking. Honestly, I couldn’t stand picking up your dirty underwear and wet towels. How did I possibly think I could handle the bits of body parts that you leave all over the place? I’d happily deal with the smell of those nasty cigars over the rotten, reeking stench that permeates the house now. I actually miss slaving over the deplorably greasy food you insisted on eating. I can’t cook for you anymore. It’s not even cooking! I’m sure the neighbors have begun to realize their juvenile delinquents didn’t all just run away. We haven't had a decent conversation since you lost your tongue. And our sex life...
You’re not the man I married.
It’s over.
I'm sorry.
Sincerely,
Mary
About the Writer
Jax writes book reviews at Bea's Book Nook, fiddles with yarn, string and needles to create all sorts of silliness, and occasionally dips her toes into writing fiction for fun.blog
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