By Neel Anil Panicker
“My child. His love bled her dry. He killed her. He’s…
“Stop it, will you?”
Shirley stared at Harry. She stepped forward, hands in tragic Christ like gesture, and shot back, “Why shouldn’t I say? Is the truth not very palatable to you, my little oh so morally correct brother?”
Harry’s lips zipped, momentarily zapped by the verbal fusillade.
He glared at his twin sis; her guilt ridden limpid blue eyes, a watery grave, confirmed his worst apprehensions.
The doc in him made a mental note.
He turned around and left.
A tree had died, the stump needed to grieve.
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