Trophy Wife
by Keleigh Girnas
It was Wednesday.
A dim day in which,
a shy sun hid behind dirty clouds.
She wore dark sunglasses,
reminiscent of Jackie - with the added O.
Circa 1970.
A recently smoked cigarette, overpowered our hug.
The faint trace of Shalimar,
barely sweetened, my nicotine assaulted senses.
She ate little during lunch
dousing her appetite with bourbon
sans water or rocks.
We spoke about absolutely nothing.
Recycling words,
in the most benign way possible.
She insisted on paying.
My objections met -
by a gold card that sealed the deal.
She never mentioned her husband.
Just fiddled with her Harry Winston 5 karat
like it was choking her finger.
She hailed a big yellow -
air kissing me from the cab window,
as she finally removed stylish shades.
I knew the "accessory" she was hiding.
Black and purple never were her colors.
Especially around the eyes.
The next time I saw her she looked peaceful.
Perfect makeup hid her shame.
She lay in a casket.
The "noose" on her finger, no longer remained.
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