And other things we lose in the fire.
(To listen to article click video below)
I swallow back bile as the door slowly opens.
SLAM SLAM SLAM. My heart is exhausted from all that thrashing against the pre-war floorboards.
She can't make eye contact with me. She's rushing around getting ready to go to the Catskills to stay with our mutual friend Blaine, in the gorgeous mid-century modern he bought during his "What does it ALL MEAN?" phase of the global pandemic. He painted it black—squid-ink-pasta black—which would be viewed as a gothic choice if it were my home.
