1
He has a month, he says.
Maybe a little less.
"But I don't understand." I'm whining now.
I continue. "We have a future together, Patrick. The words of the creator say so."
I tap on the pile of white paper they send me every week.
This amuses him.
"Oh well, Teresa, if the words say so, then it must be true."
He smiles but it's a skimpy, pale smile.
I don't think he can do the full Jane anymore.
2
He understood himself.
Had something called insight.
Knew that to sustain his own life, he had to live it on the edges.
Angela wanted just what I wanted.
A good obedient boy.
She didn't really get him either.
3
"We're bored with Red John," we all said. "Wrap up that pesky tragic avenger stuff."
He knew then that we were yanking the thread that would unravel the sweater.
If he hadn't been such a work of art, so beautiful, maybe he wouldn't have stimulated the desires of so many soft, perfumed brains.
Would have served out his time in dignity and in character. Like House or Monk.
Instead, we turned him into a slave, a bridesmaid bowing to the demands of eight million bridezillas.
4
For years, I had prayed, we had prayed, to the creator for Patrick to break down and confess his love and share everything and lo, the creator heard us.
I know now he's a shallow, vain, lazy creator.
He sacrificed his best creation.
3
Cook us pasta, Patrick.
Rub our feet.
Say nice things to us. More nice things. More.
Plan little surprises for us.
Kiss babies.
Take off the ring.
Act like we're as smart as you are, Patrick. As special. As interesting.
No, wait.
On second thought, doubt you're worthy of us.
Ahh, don't stop, baby.
Feels so good.