It’s just words, he told me as he walked away. Just words. He’d never meant them. It was something he’d said to keep me complacent. Something to keep me at his side, content, for years. While he did…whatever it was he did when he wasn’t with me.
Words. Words have power. So we were always taught. So, I dug into my grandmother’s grandmother’s books. So, I found the right words. So, I dug his grave myself—far out in the dark woods. All by myself, with my own silver shovel. Eight feet deep, it was…and long enough for a man taller than he would ever be.
Then, I called him. I offered him contrition. I begged for just one more night in his arms. I cooked him dinner. He anticipated dessert in bed. He never made it to my bed, nor anyone else’s for that matter. Not ever again.
As he ate, I told him the words, over and over, filling each word with the utmost clarity and power, filling his mind with clouds and his own lies. After a while, he gave me the strangest look, along with a queer little smile. There was a loud POP! And he was gone.
I waited for some time, to see if anything else would happen. It didn’t.
I cleaned up the kitchen. I picked up whatever of his I could find…his coat, his keys, his glasses. These I took with me.
I drove his car, that sporty yellow thing he loved more than any woman, and I drove it far out to that honky-tonk a couple of counties over. The one he used to take me to now and then. I left the keys in the ignition, with the door wide open. I walked the rest of the way, through the trees and the night.
I dropped his goods into the hole I’d dug for him. I covered it all over with the dirt, burying what I had left of him, just to be sure I was forever shut of him.
I have no idea where he went, but I do know he’ll never lie to another soul. Of that, I am certain.