No lone gunman.
No clandestine plot.
No patsy.
The communists, the mafia, the CIA — indifferent to our collapse.
No magic bullet.
No Carcano.
No Bay of Pigs.
The assassins were far more ordinary:
The slow bleed of finances,
The erosion of words,
The creeping chill of emotional distance.
Oh, and a guy named Brett.
Those were the murderers of our marriage.
That night, I lay alone in the hollow of an unfamiliar house — my ghetto
Camelot — dreaming of old lovers and long-forgotten mistakes,
surrounded by the ghosts of lives that were never mine.
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