“Just clear it, goddammit,” she hisses, between clenched teeth.
“What all of it?”
“Bin it, burn it, what the f*** do I care?”
You do care, Mrs G. So much that you want to supplant the pain of loss with some other kind of pain.
I load their memories onto the truck, money is exchanged, our respective doors are slammed.
I rent a special lock-up for these cases. Fifty bucks a month, but worth the buzz.
Because it usually is just the month.
And here she comes right now.
“Nah, everything’s still here, Mrs G, trade’s slack right now.”
After a momentous week things are getting back to normal here… for most of us. Thanks to Rochelle for her leadership of Friday Fictioneers.