She used to laugh at him under the shade of this tree. "You are a fool," she would announce, shoulders shaking and daisies tumbling from the chain around her head. "But a fool in love," he would reply after she fell asleep on the grass next to him, and in the moonlight, he would trace the tear tracks down her face. It was the only time she would cry.
A warm rush of air rustles the willow's hanging branches, cradling her in leaves. Him as well. Their bodies slowly twist in circles.
The lover watches in fascination, in grief. Only when the sun rises does he hesitantly approach her, place his head upon her taut belly, and close his eyes.
She had chosen the man who had murdered three.