In a Lonely Place

Never has a suit jacket sleeve been more rumpled than the suit sleeve of the man we call Rocco in the background. Either his arm is made of melting wax, or he just spent three consecutive nights clothed in a…

Whoever put the ashtray at that angle, a diamond linking them together rather than a square walling them apart, was right. Every day I make new discoveries. There must be enough for a lifetime right here.

His words go into her ear, into the Lonely Place. We do not hear them. It doesn’t matter. She is curious, and halfway smiles. She is being transformed. He is being transformed. Speak, listen, as if today is merely 1/24th…