Grim

by D.J. Krimmer

There’s something romantic about the way the sky unravels and demands attention. Storms don’t pretend to be anything but what they are. They come undone in a furiously loud sight. I admire that frankness.

Thunder reminds me that the world’s still turning. That a force that has seen generations come and go still thrashes and breathes and sings.

“You were my home,” she continues, her voice tender, steady, even as the weight of finality settles around her. “And I know you think you’ll never be whole without me, but you will be. Not today, not tomorrow … but someday. And I will be so proud of you when you do.”

“Pompous, party of fuck you,” she fires back, much to my satisfaction.

“You’re not looking for shoes, Mayday. You’re looking for heels that will stop the dead in their tracks. You’re looking for lift and line and elegance. You’re looking for sex in a stiletto.”