Lost Heaven

It was my job, nothing more.

Photo by Khoa Võ from Pexels

The last time I saw you, the skirt of your dress was torn — tan skin peeking through a jagged rip of scarlet. I didn’t register as you screamed my name, instead closing my eyes and lighting up a cigarette. By the time the car pulled away, I exhaled a plume of smoke into the September night’s air.

It was usually easy to forget the girls, all their faces blending together into a composite…