10:15. Traffic light paused, a long duration of self-evaluation. The strumming of an old guitar on the radio. Three men pushing shopping carts down the empty sidewalk, sweat glistening off their brow. One of them waves to someone in the distance. A smile spreading across his face like spilled ink on the carpet. Kept the windows rolled down because the fresh air is easier to breathe these days. It ain’t too cool, but it’s not where near the inferno temperatures here. Unless you’re one of those guys pushing carts down the street. (Out of Nowhere)

12:02. Her fragrance intoxicates. She’s an order of homebrew, blonde roast. A voice on the radio reads the time. It makes no difference, the way her words sway throughout the room, filling the air with their magnificence, the tick-tocking of clocks are nullified. Could spend an afternoon memorizing the curves of her lips as they break into her soft smiles. (Don’t Blame Me)

3:15. An old postcard arrived in the mail. No name or return address. Just words scrawled in heavy cursive. “I long to feel your lips against mine again.” Gave a speech at a church last week. Standing ovation. Told the truth of our place in the world. She hadn’t been in the audience, I don’t think. And had she been, would I have recognized her by the brilliance of her electric green eyes? Or by the fire of her auburn hair? There’s a promo on TV for the seven o’clock news. Three men dead. One missing. Killer at large. And I look at the postcard again. Her handwriting isn’t hard to recognize. (My Old Flame)

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