scene of the crime

Another big wave was coming in. “Well here we are, Wendy Wheeler. Lounging around on a beach with our oversized gin and tonics like an old married couple.”

“You’re leaving me,” she guessed. It was something in the tone of his voice. And, well, his history with women in general.

Jeffrey Phillips sighed, thus giving an answer.

“It was the Tennessee thing, wasn’t it? We didn’t go… far enough.”

“I guess, Wheeler, I just like them (*sigh*) cheap and easy.”

Silence for a while. “You’ll go back to Marwood then, to Easy Street — E Street.”

“Suppose so,” he said after a pause. “I mean, what do you care. You have 2 husbands already — Tropp and Opp or whatever…”

“Opp. His name is Opp. Tropp was just an invention by the maker of this blog.” She stared directly out of the blog and into my eyes. “A contraction of True Opp, just like sometimes I am referred to as True Wheeler — Treelor.”

“Yeah I never figured out what that meant.” He stared out of the blog as well, but not at me. Just at darkness. I’m writing this at 2:42 in the morning with the lights out. What I mean is that he isn’t as informed as Wheeler on the subject of the 4th wall and how to successfully break it. But he did have one trick he was about to reveal to her.

Wheeler/Hidi felt her hair get impossibly wet from that waterfall tumbling off the cliff over there. The blog, if successful, is one continuous collage, and she also knew this. Her marriage was a sham. “Jeffrey,” she then said, staring at it across the water while still getting a bit wet. “Are we even engaged?”

It was here Jeffrey admitted he had his fingers crossed behind his back the whole time, which led to this.

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