by Duncan Ralston
I’m sickened, looking at the woman across the aisle on the crowded number 6 bus, the woman without a face. Nobody’s seen her. Eyes focus on shoes, on cell phones, paperbacks, cracks of cloudy morning light between crammed-in passengers.
Anywhere but her.
The smooth, pale face turns toward mine. Sensing me looking, she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, smoothing her skirt.
A noise escapes the mouthless face. A sob?
I feel no pity, only anger.
She left me, not the other way around.
Out on the sidewalk, I sift through photos on my phone. Her beautiful face, forever mine.

About Russ Thompson

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