“The French Lady” by David Derey

I don’t throw away her dentures. They still sit on her mahogany night stand. Every day I rinse them as if taking care of them will give her the respect I never gave her in life. Everybody keeps saying we will see each other again. When they do, I force a smile across my chins. I used to hope for the afterlife. If it exists, somebody there might show her everything I did behind her back. That night in the hotel. One much nicer than any I ever took her to. That French lady. So much prettier than she ever was.

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