I’m in my usual spot, desk by the window, writing. You’re at work, and I’ve got the house to myself. I can’t focus. I guess this is what writer’s block does to you, maybe.
You’re a good man, you don’t need to know things.
Ronan was being a bit of a douche lately. He was talking about trying to talk me out of my marriage. This marriage. What I have with you. Ronan doesn’t mean a thing to me. Not anymore. Not since twenty fifteen.
You walked in the other day to find me on my knees scrubbing at a the carpet. You said I looked crazy because I was scrubbing away feverishly. But you didn’t dwell much on it because you know I am a bit of a germaphobe, so you didn’t say anything, and went on your way.
Such a darling.
Now I must dispose of Ronan’s lifeless form and the blood stains before you find out I’m not so innocent after all. Lasting impressions, baby, they matter to me.