On Tuesday, the orange hue of her trousers began to fade. By Wednesday night I could see straight through the fabric; the milky transparency of Veronica’s thighs punctuated by a mole here and there. Thursday, I noticed her shadow in the midday sun. It was not long and strong as it should be. It trailed her tenuously, frail and limp. On Friday night I caressed the place on her wrist where her heart-shaped tattoo once pulsed with the blood that moved beneath her skin. There was still a faint outline and I kissed it with dry lips. Veronica vanished wholly and completely on the Sunday.
It was the longest I’d been able to keep one though.
I’ll start over with Belinda on the Monday.