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Slipping Through My Fingers

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The thing is, that cop. Erickson? Was asking all the wrong questions. What he wanted to know didn't matter...


Was Mark in love with you?


Was Mark afraid of you?


That first kiss, your first kiss, was that when you knew you were in love with him?


The gun was in your hand. The cough syrup was distorting your perceptions. You had a chance, maybe the only chance, to be made his and to make him yours. Why didn't you pull the trigger?


These are the important questions. The ones he should be asking. Instead, he thinks I hated Mark. Or was jealous of him or some other bullshit. And he knows, he can tell, that I'm in love with Mark. But he never asks about that either. About how hard I kissed him that second time. How graceless and uncomfortable and raw it was. How Mark tasted like weed and desperation. How warm and electric and alive he felt in my hands.


How many times since that moment have you wished it'd been you on the other end of that bullet?


How many. If I could count? At least once a second. Maybe more. But who wants to count something like that?