I was supposed to have written this yesterday, instead I’m writing this on a Sunday morning. It’s a still morning. No ripple. The sky the colour of colic. There is the droning sound of a plane passing somewhere 25,000 …
I once lived a floor above a hooker. She’d step out every night donning garish clothes, with painted lips and tottering on the highest of heels. Most nights, because we had perennial water problems, she would ask me to …
