I finished a paragraph, and sat back. Pulled a smoke and saw it wafting and weaving. Knew how much she hated it. Smiled.
I hear her voice calling from the stores, the magazines, and in my head. She follows me in my dreams, can`t get rid of her.
Bitch!
I write and she complains, tells me I`m ignoring her, yet another excuse for a long time nagging about the times I sent her to exotic climes. Adventures, money, and jewels.
Now, well the more I type the quieter she gets, and the better I feel.
Finished my smoke and smiled.
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