I was going to relate every maximalist detail that made the man and the woman worth remembering.
Almost gave away what they had that was theirs alone. That windy draft burned. The fire was a blessing, finally.
Wrote a shorter confession, without on-ramps, off-ramps, scratched the third-person analysis, fired the voice-over technicians.
Scoured blood from floorboards, skipped entirely what they found when they pulled the decapitated convertible from under the semi-trailer.
I sent everyone remaining home with severance bribes and sleep problems. Burned the story to the ground and didn't file an insurance claim. Lived, loved, died. Complicated, abbreviated.
11 June 2014