“Dear, Sonya.”
The name sounded and felt foreign now. “Sonya,” he said. “Who were you.”
She had been gone two weeks. There was no hint, no note, and no one knew where she was. The police had dragged the swamp where she was last seen. He had been there himself hysterically pounding the mud, made from his tears, with his fists.
Yes, she had loved him. Her kisses hadn’t lied.
Closing his eyes, he thought back to that day, that day never left him, but she had.
“They’ll never find you,” he said, speaking to his self-imposed darkness.
He looked out the window; fireflies were in the yard. They scattered among the fog and grass like hanging diamonds.
“Will they find you?”
“Do I care?”
j willis sanders 