Morning, barefoot on the mat, chef shirt untucked, copper quiet on the rack. I am telling the phone with a glass of water in my other hand because Enzo is…
Different arcade, still an ID at the door, still not the record store. September, and my hair was already messy from the walk. I sat on a stool in the…
No microphone. I told Craig that at the door of the hotel room so he would not think every night with me becomes a file. Craig is forty-nine, another app,…
