The Guide sat patiently, perched on the edge of the couch, her back perfectly straight. The sun was falling through the window and long shadows stretched over the apartment, which was mostly bare floor. The Guide prided herself on eschewing material possessions, with the exceptions of a coffee table and what she was sitting on.
She reached her long hand out to the table in front of her and picked up a phone. Carefully she dialed. Someone picked up.
The Guide started speaking slowly.
"Do you know why men are like couches?"
The Guide told her story, a tale of cruel love, shattered dreams, and violence.
She finished.
"Ma'am, a patrol car is on its way over there right now. Is your ex-boyfriend still breathing?"
The Guide hung up and placed the phone back on the table. Breathing. She smiled.
She leaned over to his lips and kissed him one last time. When she had stretched his skin to make the couch, the lips ended up on the armrest.
She sat up and reached out to the table to get the gun. It was time to go and help the girl on the beach, the one with the silky legs.
She put the barrel in her mouth and pulled the trigger.
That won't come out, she regretted, a last thought of concern for her favorite piece of furniture.
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