new better fiction, with a title, soon to be revised, and maybe relocated

a short story

I Killed Clara

I had been traveling longer and further than I ever had. I felt poor, somewhat regal. Adrienne sighed. "Do you think I can get to via Verdi and back in time?" "Oui" just, oui. I loved him, I had always loved him. But not in a sexual way, not a baubly, desiring way. No doubt I did desire him, but I desired him the way I desired distance, the way I desired heartache, the way I wanted coffee on Monday mornings, tea at two. I loved him the best way you can love someone: shallow, short.
He is an average height but it’s not apparent. He is slightly bitchy, and it is. I put up with it. I could not bear to extinguish him. A strange mix of extreme, brazen confidence and genuine moments of humility. Hypocrisy in its rarest and best form. I remember wondering which was the dominant side in him the night we killed Clara. Its one of those things you go over and over again in your mind. Did it really happen? It didn’t seem permitted.
I had often wondered in those days how anyone could take a life. Now, it seemed so simple, so docile, so easy to admit. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I repeated it as not to forget. The days had in fact become so conducive to forgetfulness. And really, I believe if I didn’t repeat this to myself on occasion, I would just as soon settle in Italy amongst the art and Chianti and regenerate with what pieces I had left of life. Could be worse. I’d become stationary again. Why, I believe I would just assume I had been born Italian, and never question it. The red hair may throw me from time to time, but I suppose I’d rationalize it with a quick anecdote about my father, the Tuscan, and his ill-fated fleet-footed Irish hussy who occasionally came around after I was born. I hear she’s in Sri Lanka somewhere.
I turned the corner. “I think we should stop, Adrienne.” Its funny I had been building up the courage to say that to him for weeks, only now, hearing it out loud, letting it materialize, it seems like such a small, docile thing.

“No.”
Wow, and now hearing the response. Gosh, I had hardly thought that one out enough. How very anticlimactic, I thought, how very predictable and straightforward as well, alright then. Why did that not occur to me?
It’s just as well. I’ve always been flighty. My memories have always carried on a somewhat shallow relationship with my consciousness. My moments maintain a constant flirtation with my mind, leading it on incessantly. I’m very easily and suddenly forgetful. Even the most vivid and earnest parts of life, I lose on a regular basis. Of course I always remember and recall them the immediate that they are recapped to me. I remember everything that I don’t need. I forget everything that I do. Probably another reason for reminding myself of Clara so often. If that’s my only responsibility in exchange for having the great talent of losing memory, then go ahead with it I suppose.

“Are you hungry yet doll? Should I cook again tonight?”
“No, I haven’t been hungry for sometime. You really should stop offering me food in place of love Simone, it’s unbecoming.”

Get groceries.
Apply for visa.
I killed Clara.