Her sudden fall, backwards, into the Grand Canyon left me with nothing to do but stand there, in shock, knowing my love is about to meet her maker or his adversary. If it's the later, the odds-on-favorite, her mom might be waiting to greet her. Until her not soon enough and untimely departure I had plenty of horrifying nightmares regarding my sweetie's mother. A few with happy endings (not sexual): one with bright red shoes sticking out from under the house that landed on her. The bitch's strangled body was discovered with a doll's house resting on her body.
My once beautiful bride, before the splatter, must have tripped over something. I didn't notice what since I was busy adjusting the camera. The last images I remember seeing thru the lens were the bottom of her shoes and part of her body in a horizontal position. If I had taken that snapshot, I would have solid proof that I didn't push her. That might have prevented a ten hour painful interrogation.
Now when I think of cops, they're always holding a phone book. Large telephone directories were used to clobber the back of my head in four US states since the age of fourteen. Not once in all the movies I watched while being unjustly held in prison did I see a cop using a phone book as an interrogation tool. If I had to be tortured, I prefer water-boarding. A practice federal agents have been using since April first.
I planned on having my sweetheart cremated - to help get her acclimated to the heat. The sacred writings in her bible made it clear where she was going. Due to the way those cops treated me I left her heart (and remains) in Arizona.
I never smoked. My lovebird (without wings - obviously) smoked two packs a day, but quit our wedding day. On our honeymoon she persuaded me to agree on smoking one butt after sex every time. The sum of my hard as nails cigs proved I had sex a dozen times. My nympho bride lit up more than a hundred times.
I suspected adultery when I noticed less than half a carton of cigarettes hidden under a floorboard in her bedroom. She must have had sex in every room, except my bedroom: the only room not reeking of burnt tobacco. That's a lot of love making.
I finally caught her with her pants down, smoking while sitting on the toilet beneath a cloud of tobacco-smoke. Her partner in crime must have leaped out the open window before the ritual 'smoke after sex'.
"Okay, you caught me," she confessed. "Sorry!"
Instead of responding then, I ran for the front door. Maybe I had time to catch her stud.