It took three heartbeats to consider, for the first time in my life, that I might not be mentally stable, two more to realize I’d really heard my dead brother’s voice; “Cat,” he’d said, loud and clear.
He clicks reload, waiting for a message from her, deleting all others, growing anxious as time passes, until she replies with, “I love you.”
Almost no one noticed when the last god died; just a child, half asleep, heard the rattle.
The young woman considered the menu carefully before deciding to order success because failure was way out of her price range.
Today I found a love note written in black ink on a pencil-thin slip of paper, tucked between the pages of a poetry book some seventeen years ago by a woman I grew to hate and, eventually, forget.