The Tuxedo Archives


I cannot make this story come out right. I walked in and he was dead. Dead is dead. Nothing I said or did at that moment could change a single thing. I could wish it; I could regret it. But I could not change it. He was dead on the floor, looking like he was uncomfortably asleep, stiff. He did not have on his favorite shirt. There was a small spaghetti stain under his left pocket, and I knew he probably hadn’t even seen it. How distressed he would have been to die with a spaghetti stain on his shirt.


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