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54
King Salvatore. The frame of the picture is distorted, broken in cascade of fragments reflecting the fractured image that it once held. It used to have an elegant border, but now a jagged outline of its former self. It’s a picture of my first wife, Katherine, the mother of my children. Her memory is something that I don’t deal with or talk about despite it happening decades ago. It’s a conversation that I don’t speak about and now, looking at her distorted image through the broken frames, I clench my jaws. “I’m sorry…I didn’t see it.” Lilas says, she has spotted the sternness on my face. Thus, its apparent that I’m being obstinate about the picture. “Just leave.” I say, refusing to listen to her excuses. “I can fix it…” Lilas says and I look at her, staring at the guilt on her face.
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