Verlaine

SALLY LIPTON DERRINGER

She was giving herself time, some time. After what happened. Because something happened, and then something else. It was okay not to want to wake up in the morning.

It was raining. Like in the “il pleure” poem she’d given him because he liked rain. It rained in the town like it rained in her heart, everywhere relentless and unendurable.

She looked under the bed, in the cabinets, in the mirror. Voilà. Something was gone.

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