Partitioning the Other Half

She wears her solvent frown. Forthcoming and obstinate. Her lips. Little ruffles of lace. To see through as they tumbled down over the sparse pinnacles of lonely mountains. A greater distance away that I would care to admit.

She tests the chamber. Variants all in place. As submission dissolves the stitches. Embedded too deep. For ordinary knives to undo. She kneels on the platform. As my machine hums beneath her legs. She moans softly as the gears begin to gyrate. Seduced by the science. In love with the experiment.

She leaves her shoes at the door. Deflated balloons full of dead stars. Walk no farther. As she obsesses over sleep and chance and other such mundane affectations. Of the shell she has collected. On that damp and briny shore. Where the wave are weak. And drowning is easy. If you've ever seen the ocean.

Bland appetizers. And pretentious main courses. And desserts that aren't very sweet at all.

She scratches her message into the door. As she leaves. Years. Like confetti fall. Blank strips of paper on the ground. Confess. A murder of sorts.