And it’s not from the sub-twenty-degree temperature at the cemetery. It’s because the woman I loved, the woman I couldn’t save, is gone. I shove my hands into my wool coat and peek out from behind the tree. A mass of people, all in black, stand as they carry her coffin to its place in the ground. I feel hot tears burn my cold cheeks. I look down at the red roses I bought from a bodega down the street. Chloe deserves better than bodega flowers. I’m not even sure she liked red roses. Something tells me she did, but in an ironic sort of way. Like the way she only drank Starbucks. “Might as well give in to societal inclinations,” she would say, grinning and sipping her raspberry mocha. Give in. Or give up? I angrily kick the snow underneath me. Fuck Chloe. Fuck her for leaving me. She was my solace. She understood me in ways that nobody else ever had. She pushed me to write Underground Love. That book was her doing.
What do You think about Between The Pages: A Novel?
