The wind whips through the cabin window I’d told her to close a thousand times, tossing the stack of coffee-stained unpaid bills to and fro.
The bulb burns out, exchanging one evasive excuse for another.
Megan holds a vanilla candle, flickering shadows of the person she used to be, like pulling the night off her bedsheets.
The wax drips to a puddle beneath its wicker.
A hazy light burns her lazy eyes.
Pay the goddamn light bill.
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(© 2020 Andrew Cyr)