If my wife’s hometown had been smaller, she would never have met a man like me. If it had been bigger, I would have fled from her.
Her date arrived late, his suit caked in dirt. She left with barely a hello. Later on the news was her date. He’d saved a small boy’s life.
He typed opinions, they took his laptop. He penned opinions, they took his paper. In prison he wrote in blood; defying them to take him.
“I am really a genius. I could have written great novels or poetry.” “But you didn’t.” “No,” he flipped the TV channel, “but I could have.”
She rolls the glass in her hand, ice shards swimming in gin, and promises herself and God: just two more drinks tonight.
Three times he went back to the door. The last he waited longest, pausing, breathing, waiting, waiting. Rain dripped down. Then he knocked.