An oil lantern and
several candles dimly lit Rita’s house.
The young woman motioned
for me to take a seat on a large, leather couch.
After living in the ruins
of Chicago for so long, this room seemed foreign to me. It was so… domestic.
Pictures sat on the small
coffee table in front of me.
Rita, young, her eyes
unbound, with her another woman, around the same age. The way they stood next to each other told me
that they had been more than just friends.
I glanced from picture to
picture, and I could see the progression of their relationship, watching them
grow older together, and in each picture they looked happier and happier.
“She was my wife.”
Rita stood in the
doorway, seeming to watch me through the bandage wrapped around her eyes.
“That is my Ashtyn.”
She smiled.
I asked her where her
wife was.
Rita shook her head.
“That’s a story for a
different time. I have a different story to tell you.”
She sat in a chair across
from me, moving through the room with ease.
“I have your story to
tell you. One that you don’t even know about yet.”
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