Clumsy maneuver. Jagged windowpane glass. His hand split open like a ripe, juicy watermelon bursting in the heat. The best thing to have done at that point would have been to run, run, the other way, run. Ya know, like some smart motherfucker mighta done. But no, not Jerry. No, Jerry, he ran ‘bout thick as a Bible. Slow and meandering. An uncracked Gideons with a pristine spine. So many lessons ne’er learnt.

Jerry, stumbling and muttering curses, he bled all over the crime scene. A dozen bloody handprints all here and there and a few more elsewhere as if for good measure. Not to mention the three perfect full palm prints he left on the body. One mighta almost surmised he was working on behalf of the detectives.

Sloppy like a rind drunk dustbin racoon, he made the place his own. He ate. He lounged. Gnawed. Considered shit for breaking. Broke a lamp and then cut his hand on a mirror trying to do more damage and bled even worse. Felt none of that. Bust it up. Mine. Hers. Possessions once his, all the better. No matter. All of it.

Sunrise. Police cruisers skid in. Neighbors out on their lawns gawking. Twittering and twitching. Nervous squirrels. Jerry befuddled. Jerry cuffed and tucked into a squad car.

Pulling away, looking into all the wide eyes, Jerry’s eyes were dead. In the light of day, he saw one thing, however. Wrong house, wrong woman. His ex-wife lives one street over.

All those days how he’d loved her and she him. Once upon a time.

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