“Does it hurt that bad to love me like that?” I ask him, but without judgment. If it hurts, it hurts. Crown glances back and then stands up, climbing off so that he can turn to look at me. “Worse than anything I’ve ever experienced,” he admits, watching me there with memories dancing in his eyes, illuminated by the soft glow of the porch light. It’s a gas lamp which makes it flicker like real flame. That’s what this man’s attention to detail is like. A regular porch light wasn’t enough to bring his wife home to. “Like being eviscerated, crucified, and left to rot in the hot sun.”
