He had died. The message came. A very short call. No attempt by the voice on the other side of the line to layer his words with icing. Found with foam dried at the corner of his twisted mouth with his tongue sticking out. The entire colour drained from it like neglected flowers in a vase. His eyes shot an infinite blankness, dark as the stage on which the stars stood with an old syringe whose needle was tired and weary as a nomad’s feet keeping his stiff body company on the ground.
Tears. She had none. All dried up along with the words in her mouth. A retreating army eclipsed by the torrents of emotion invading her being. Reason, logic or understanding all as good as the sentences of a grey parrot. They were just celebrating last night with the excitement of a shook soda. He had gone 100 days sober.