You are living but no longer in my life; alive but dead to me, like the music you play in damp churches, composed by dead masters with bad teeth and gout. I don’t remember your teeth.
Were they white and straight or shadowy gray? You never smoked, but you liked to drink red wine and eat French cheese on crusty white baguettes, and always cream for your coffee. Maybe you have gout.
Or maybe you’re dead...
(To read the rest of this story, and a couple more new stories of mine, and some by a bunch of other people, go to the current issue of Sleet Magazine)