The Postman Rings One Last Time.

There’s a guy in No. 7 that murdered his brother, and says he didn’t really do it, his subconscious did it. I asked him what that meant, and he says you got two selves, one that you know about and the other that you don’t know about, because it’s subconscious. It shook me up. Did I really do it, and not know it? God Almighty, I can’t believe that! I didn’t do it! I loved her so, then, I tell you, that I would have died for her! To hell with the subconscious. I don’t believe it. It’s just a lot of hooey, that this guy thought up so he could fool the judge. You know what you’re doing, and you do it. I didn’t do it, I know that. That’s what I’m going to tell her, if I ever see her again.

Anyways, here I sit, holed up in the chambers awaitin’ that new fangled way they get rid of fellas like me.Then all of a sudden, my last wishes are granted.

There she stands with those two big lips, just like the first time. The dim light from the hall paints the angles of her cheekbones in charcoal gray, echoing the buzz that radiates from the curvature of her body

“You got a cloth? That I can hold on to this thing with?”

Something heavy, and heavily familiar, dangles from the tips of her wine-stained fingers. She emerges from the shadows and the rounded edge glints with her movement towards me.

“I’m not a hell cat, Frank … I’m just as white as you are.”

With a flash of fire, every light in the house went off. The sound of rain on a tin roof slowly patters to a halt.

Wherever it is, we’ve made it together.