He told her so.
He does not tell her he hates vanilla now.
She sits down beside him, touching the sides of his weakness.
He sits rigidly, detached by her starter.
She tells him he smelt like chocolates, dark.
He nodes, heads for the door knob.
She lets him exit.
The curtains flail in protest.
He pauses outside the door only for a second as she reaches for the notebook to write
Notes for their funeral.
Conquer Igali. (C) 2015
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