What they say about you isn’t true. You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t do that thing. A man you never knew is some friend of your friend’s. I told him how I think about how your life ended and he held my hand across the table (I didn’t say he could touch me). He said, “My friends knew him and they don’t think…
As if I had never heard this before.
“…they don’t think it was an accident.”
It was like he was giving me the delicate present of this idea, one I left among crumpled paper ages ago. Fuck men who think they can tell you things you already know. Such as: the ambiguity of your movements, and the type who wades into a river drunk at night. I was that type on the beach before. I kept a sleeping bag in the trunk of my car. I thought nothing of those suicide missions in moonlight, while you sipped from a sandy bottle, your image of me getting smaller and blacker as I took methodical steps toward the sea.
(This is flash fan fiction about the romance between musicians Jeff Buckley and Elizabeth Fraser).