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drinking with Mama

The coffee percolates on the table, dripping black into Mama’s favorite mug. I dump the grounds in the trash, avoiding your eyes, and wrap my fingers around the cracked, cactus-covered porcelain.

“You have to talk to me,” you say.

I think about pouring gin into my coffee, and when I look up, I know you’ve read my mind.

You look sad, and I almost hate you for it. “Let her go, Waverly. It’s been months.”

I open my mouth, but Mama scowls at me from behind your shoulder.

“Let her go,” she says.

I sigh. If only dead meant dead.

(Written for The PredictionChallenge words: cactus, gin, percolate)

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