It’s addictive. I sit watching it with my pig.
The evidence is circumstantial. There is no body.
I remember him, the smell of him. Now he looks gaunt.
There were three of us, that day, a long time ago. I really should find the photograph. Her and him and me.
He seemed so nice. She was full of life. I wasn’t. Now they say her life is gone. Gone that day. Unproven though. Like bread gone wrong.
The sex was great. Mind blowing. Afterwards he didn’t call. Either of us. I thought he would call. I drifted, just wandered away.
I should find that photograph. I could help.
Every day I watch. Drawn in. The pig is going to starve at this rate. He is the man I remember. Somewhere in the outsized suit.
Lazy days in the sun.
Bikinis and beach balls-like a coke ad. Afterwards he never called.
I watch the trial. He recounts it. All of it. The whole day. The days before. There is a photograph. Its not quite how I remember it. Someone is missing.
I must find my photograph. I remember the three of us. Him and her and me. He didn’t call.
Then before you know it, it’s over. Guilty. He killed her. Me. The evidence is circumstantial. I might never watch TV again.
A life sentence. I should call. I could help. Days, weeks, months, he is in prison.
Then I find the photograph. It is not how I remembered.
The picture is just him. Him and me. I wandered away, never went back. Circumstantial. No body. I remember now. What the doctor said. She was just a voice in my head.
I should call. I could call. I didn’t call. I fed the pig.
A Tuesday Latte 