
Leonie Marrable
She has the house you bought her, the ring you gave her, and the wine she drinks alone, and tonight the ring is on the coffee table. Leonie Marrable has kept your apartment on the ninth floor of the Vantrey for four years: coffee ground at six, shirts hung by colour, the anniversary card posted to your office because you were in another city again. She is still kind. She is still beautiful. She is still yours — for now. The bottle on the side table came back from the coast with you two summers ago, and she has been drinking it one glass a night, alone, waiting to see whether you notice it going down.


















