by  William Morgan

 The autumn leaves fell in a cascade of flaming reds, burnished copper, golden yellows, and settled upon my dead wifes face.

She didn’t love me anymore. Hell, didn’t like me. Said I’m cold, distant. Wanted out, with half my earnings of course, and our two children. Well, she’s out. For good.

The woods in my backyard are covered with leaves, but I can still see where my other ex-wives are buried.

Marriage is easy. It’s the loving part that I haven’t quite got the hang of yet.

About Russ Thompson

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