The man who lives next door took my old girlfriend.
I had propped her up against the dumpster in the alley. But not five minutes later I saw him sauntering toward his porch with her tucked under his arm and a grin on his face.
It’s just as well, I thought with good reason, for I had thrown her out. Yet I caught myself thinking about them. (Guys get like that so it’s fine, really.) I also thought about her two dimensional curves and her icy eyes–her best feature.
I had to see her again. Under the cover of night I crept over to the man’s house and peered through a window. He was on the couch uttering things to her. She was leaning against the wall, staring at him. Those eyes used to fixate on me, I said to myself, consumed with rage probably.
The next day while the man was out, I broke into his house. She was in the bedroom. I pounced and ripped her to shreds. Then I lit her on fire. But I don’t understand fire. So the fire spread to the rest of the house.
I ran back to my house and dialed my realtor.
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