June opened
the door to her small one bedroom apartment on Trowbridge Street. After she shoved the stubborn door closed
behind her, stillness descended upon the space. The dying light from outside
filtered weakly through her kitchen window leisurely traversing the distance
across the kitchen and into her eyes. She squinted and then closed her eyes,
trying to drain the memories out of her mind. Yet pieces remained, like
oversized clumps clogging up the strainer basket of a kitchen sink.
Too slow, she sighed, and grabbed a
bottle of wine from the kitchen. She turned into her bedroom. Her wine glass
was waiting where she had left it that morning. June looked distastefully for a
second at the residual wine that had dried at the bottom of the glass then
poured to the brim.
As the wine slid down her throat
she popped open her laptop lid and let the liquid and artificial light force
the remaining clumps of memory down the drain.
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