The pain worked like an alarm, a prompt wake up call that exploded throughout my body at 7:52 a.m. on day 645 of our free falling marriage. Somewhere in another room a woman would be sleeping off the effects of the less than market valued wine that I had supplied. Her shoulder most likely throbbed from its sudden provoked use as she pitched the brass frame that encased the picture of two smiling lovers from so long ago. Today would be the day. The hinges grind their warning as I enter the empty sanctuary.
She has already gone.
She has already gone.
