I want a bitch with stiletto heels and no tears. She'll do her business and shift gears. "Want a sandwich?" She asks.
"Yes," I'll say, and just like that--ham & swiss. "Thanks baby doll." Then she'll give me a blowjob as I eat it. Afterward, she'll go home.
Such is the life of Gabe Crocker, a well-meaning gentlemen on the Upper East Side.
It is true that my fiction has no major prognosis. Just an arm with a sweatband on it and no known destination. Just floating in the reeds like an old boat. Or another type of vessel entirely.
The incalculable politics of loss. Nobody reads this stuff anyway.
An iron stove emitting heat. The sod house smelling sweetly of earth. Mother giving me a velvet bear. Emily slipping into the water like an undressing dove.
A plump robin washes himself, then preens in a nearby tree.
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