In Honor of October

I love old women. They have stories.

Every elderly woman I’ve gotten to know, all they do is talk about this one Man, always, like He’s a King. There are no other stories but those with Him. And they have so many. Stories of how He could do no wrong. How He was the sexiest Man. How it was the best time of their lives. Their travels, their talks, and the dresses they wore when they first kissed.

They married Him and had kids with Him and realized He was wrong.

He tricked them. He was horrible. He was an asshole. He betrayed them and He broke their hearts. Yet He’s that one Man that they talk about leading up to their death and during death. Even after death. I know He’s somewhere in their ether. There’s something He did.

A poison. A needle. A splinter that they can’t get out. Their skin encompasses Him and never lets go. He becomes a part of them. He’s a cancer that fights chemo and wins. And He will kill you. If your boobs don’t.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.