It was three and the post box was empty. The cat paced in a ballet of overfed tuna trance by the door. Where was the brutal bag of hearts? She had left it somewhere long ago in the house. She couldn't find it now. It was curious that she thought about it. Only one heart mattered to her. The one that she couldn't have. That was never in the bag. Like the others had been. Broken and in pieces. That heart was still whole. Still beating. Out there. Outside beyond the post box.
Have a wicked Wednesday!
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