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Escaping and Cushions...

The slam of the door and his footsteps, as they trample and crush each leaf underfoot and step on every crack – everything she’d asked him not do. The squelch of her leather chair as she tries to hide beneath the cushions, so the world doesn’t hear her sigh. Her tears run across the cushion’s surface, unable to sink in, or stain, or be remembered – at least not in their physical form. She never hears the car’s motor rumble, because he’s done what he always does – run.
To escape – out into the backstreets of his city, into the concrete lanes with graffiti angel gunmen on roller doors and washing lines strung between apartment windows.
To escape – into the depths of herself, her tiny world of the armchair and her cushions and him… and yet without him, she can only bury her sorrows like lost money under the couch – forgotten and worthless. And so it is, that she stands on wobbly knees, pushed up by hands on the worn chair arms to creep into the kitchen on pensive footsteps, missing each crack between the tiles.

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