It’s a Saturday night and the sky is a pair of broken glasses.
Dindi listens to old country music. Cal Smith sings about a wife who is guilty of dumb thinkin’. She’s not married. In fact, she’d like to take marriage and feed it so much cotton candy it dies of terminal over-sweetening.
She’s been in 27 relationships, loathes that word. Love should never have more than two syllables. Sometimes she’s full of dumb thinkin’. Sometimes he’s full of dumb thinkin’. Sometimes they’re full of dumb thinkin’. Sometimes dumb thinkin’ gets pregnant and a very intelligent baby is born.
She’s only wanted to murder ten of her ex’s. The rest she wants to be dirty magazines stored in the attic and only discovered when she climbs up to get Christmas decorations. She hasn’t actually killed anybody despite several invitations.
Without glasses, she dopes around. So does the sky. Except it does so with clouds and the sun looks so hot serving pale guests in a bright yellow frock.
The Bloody Chamber