Draped against my couch with her eyes closed, there’s something so posed in her repose. Lying there like a dime store novel cover model, she does the damsel well. I think all she needed was the cigarette. I read what Chandler wrote as I stand over her, she had eyes like strange sins, and I hear her say, ‘You want me,’ in that thousand thread count voice, ‘the way a magician wants an illusion.’ Sure, I think, but not another trick, when she’s already pulled the aces from my sleeve and played the queen of hearts upon her own.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.