Sly reflected that damnation was probably this: senility. Wondering constantly where your keys were, and why did you want them in the first place? Also, there was the matter of his car not being in the garage any longer, after Sly Jr. had come and taken it away. Sly tried to grump about a special hell being reserved for ungrateful, greedy sons, but he didn’t have the heart. After all, his boy was, really, just like his mother: pale-skinned and kind-eyed and far too concerned with making Sly live to a hundred.
If only Callie had been so concerned with her own self. He drank his calcium-fortified o.j. and stared at the spot on the carpet where he’d found her. He still stepped over it, still occasionally kneeled to touch it, still could not forget this one thing: that she’d left him first.
Thank you for reading. If you're looking for something a bit more witchy, may I suggest yesterday's microflash, The Witch's Lover?