I watch her home movies, a voyeur in this golden odyssey, the flashes of faces bathed in sepia tone, her favorite filter when she’s not away. The Whore of Babylon keeps a book of secrets in the file cabinets upstairs between growing her own business, profit and loss statements, systems in place to catch her when she falls.

Her hair is this spun gold, the stuff of angels. Her clothing, a finery made in London and Beverly Hills. But her eyes are cold and dead, they regard me as penance for her multitude of sins, the one fall from grace she cannot abide, I pay for again and again when I cannot avert my own from him.

His unkempt bed, the fragments of this life they once shared, she at the lead, living out a hero’s adventures with other men more lavish, the keys to her platinum shell of a heart. I will read him a story one day, of the endless sea and lonely people singing to themselves in broken Beatles.

If only he would look up and ask.


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