Dead Hour Blues

by therockfile

blues1

She’d been taking Valium, pretty much every night.

“Every night?”

“I skipped a day,” she said.

“With the drinking?”

“A little wine,” she said.

Maybe that was it, the thing that hollowed her out, made her a black hole. She quit her job, but wouldn’t talk about it. I wondered what she did during the day.

She said something about ashes on the living room floor.

I remembered the moment we met. I was listening to Jackson C. Frank, and she walked in and said “Jackson C. Frank.” Just like that, as if it was totally normal, someone sitting there, listening to Jackson C. Frank.

That would never change. And now all this.

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