No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Isabel sautéed the onions, garlic, and ginger she’d chopped before adding the curry spices to the pan. When the aroma was right, she stirred in coconut milk and added the chicken. It would be highly seasoned, the way Alex liked it. How much peanut butter would it take, she wondered, to ensure that he’d suffer a fatal allergic reaction? Not just swelling and discomfort, but cardiac arrest.
And what’s this? There’s someone else sitting in the corner, meal long finished, looking, looking around. Don’t like that, the way he’s looking: who sits in a chicken shop and just looks?
That was when I made my big mistake.
“The only reason he had anything to do with you was to get to me.”
She flinched.
Oh… here we go again. Packing up, but hopefully the last time I recon if in truth I get there. I can’t remember the number of times I’ve moved in my life – too many.
She understood that her great grand uncle Emmett liked acquiring things. She understood too that he had a fondness for telling stories. In another few years, it became clear that what Emmett Dorn liked most was observing people, messing with them, and then killing them.
“Come Rifka, it will be a game. We will be able to swim to the bottom where there is a playground and lots of children playing.”