She punctured the hollow of his grief with serrated plunges of quicksilver. Each breath he took turned portraiture, with scalloped wisps of frost spilling truth abundantly.
Mia . . .
Stealing the warmth from the room, tricking the life out of his i-Pod as well as the background noise of his plasma TV. His smart phone had gone black, the candles dry. The cat loosed, the doors gone heavy as boulders. The plush of sunflowers on the kitchen counter went bankrupt to the needy clutches of a dark unrestrained. The world outside was a muted shell of space unkempt.
Her obituary lay on the table.
It had supplied him the crumple of grief, where the hours curdle in a horrible sameness. His thoughts were mangled strands of unanswerable questions, hopeless rivets building the blind beast on a demon’s pledge.
He’d wondered where her soul would seek company and now, he knew.