by Michael Akerib
The girl. She was the girl I had always wanted to meet.
Yes that very girl. The one that held the flowers against her breasts.
She was blonde. She was extremely rich. She was pure. She was Bonnie’s friend.
Which girl are we talking about? I knew who she was even though I did not remember her name.
She looked at me for a very long time, a cold, distant look, like that of a film star, the gaze of a pure girl, who had gone through her teenage years untouched, in spite of all the boys she had dated. She used to take her dog out for a walk; and she also would give him a bath and cut his nails. He had a collar studded with precious stones. And she smiled when her path crossed mine.
‘Karin,’ whispered Bonnie (Bonnie had been her childhood friend). ‘Karin,’ she said louder.
Karin could not smile back. She could not smile back. Neither speak. Karin was dead.