Alone At Last

   Enola has skin like fine old leather, smooth, but brittle and worn scarily thin. I am careful when I touch her not to tear or bruise. Her breasts are like the flaps of pockets; her lips hard, thin lines that I am afraid may slit my own papery flesh if too passionately applied. We have met like this before, the first time being when Caroline died. We came together quite accidentally and in a conjugal way after the funeral and then agreed to do the same after the funeral of every friend until they were all gone. We reasoned that it would help to ease our sorrow.

   But wait, I ask, what will become of the other when, finally, as is certain to happen, one of us passes? Enola laughs uncontrollably, her side cramping, her ribs colliding and then, laughing still, cradles my face with her long sinewy fingers. "Don't be such a ninny, Jack!" she scolds, moving closer, her nose nearly touching mine. "Haven't we each had more than enough practice at going it alone?"

glwarren, 2014