We would go to museums, the symphony, out to dinner, bird-watching; we would listen to music.

He would show up at the door, naked, drink in hand, with Coltrane’s “My One and Only Love” sung by Johnny Mercer softly playing in the background.

What was I supposed to do with that?


This entry was published on 02.12.15 at 11:53 pm. It’s filed under creative nonfiction, creative writing, fiction, journal entry, literature, short fiction and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.


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