I found her innocence stifling, her undiluted love too much to take. Wherever I was, she was there too. Whenever I sought the attentions of the bottle, she was there to prevent it, to coax the drink from my hand. She smiled when she did so. She always smiled. What I required, however, was a sneer or a slap. She just wouldn’t do.
I remember gazing down at her grief-stricken figure, a black veil across her face, a tissue in her hand. Her slender form looked like it might snap under the gale and the howling rain. A man in a dog-collar consoled her, though, in truth, he wasted his time and the other single mourner’s too; she was inconsolable. Standing over a large hole in the ground, she threw something I recognised as my favourite shot glass; it smashed to a tinkling tune. Only then did I realise I’d left her. Only then did I know I was dead.