It was the day after the murder that I thought of you. Something was on your mind. Perhaps we were all a little in shock. It just seems to me, on reflection, that pensive reflection you’d made, about how nothing was taken, and yet, something was taken besides a life, that day. Glaringly, perhaps too big to notice. I did not think of it until the next day, and then the disharmony of your words troubled me. It was like an ill-mannered joke, a dig. As though you were being sarcastic, or an author was trying to make our eventual realization of the obvious all that much more dramatic. An irony? Or, had you seen what we were all of us, in the moment of finding the body, too preoccupied to see?
The Obvious
Tale Told 