(Written in the letter D. Just for fun!)

D is for Dead

It seems Dexter was a dancer, not a doctor. He followed me into donut shops and dollar stores. He spied on me from ditches.

I found him disgusting and desperate.

I called for a deputy, but the department knew about Dexter. They said he wasn't dangerous, just determined.

Still I dodged and deceived him. I wrote Dear Dexter letters. It didn't matter. He played dreamy ditties in my driveway at high decibels.

He declared his love for me daily.

I was distressed. I was disturbed. I drank decaf.

"I don't love you," I disclosed.

"You're in denial," he declared.

One day I dreamed he was dead. How he died was debatable, but my DNA wasn't on the gun.

I told them I didn't do it, but the next thing I knew I was on death row in Dallas on Dateline.

I was defiant. I defended myself. Is this democracy? Where is my due process?

Afterwards, in a damp dungeon, I was depressed.

Then I heard a ding dong.  It was my doorbell. I was disorientated.

I opened the door. It was a delivery from Dexter.

"Was it only a dream?"

A disturbing dream I decided. Maybe I was drugged!

Then I opened the letter. It contained a document, a damp detailed dissolve...

Dexter had ditched me. He was now devoted to Darla.

(c) 2022 Jan Darrow  /  photo: Pixabay