April 16th, 2009


Still struggling with the same story as last night. I’ve finally cut a paragraph that hasn’t been needed in a long time, but that I have a ridiculous fondness for. So, as with all my ridiculousnesses, I’m posting it here, just so it’ll have a home.

It’s hot in Western Ohio. It was hot in Montreal too, but back then it was also dawn, which gave your clothes some clearance from your body. Now everything is slicked tight, even the baggy canvas of his shorts, even the thin cotton of the street-stand t-shirt that says, Fest. It is a generic t-shirt, bought for four-dollars in Outremont when he spilled red wine at a party and ran downstairs to see if he could by a new one. For four dollars, he didn’t care what Fest it referred to, although here, in Western Ohio, with the rubber-decal letters sweating to the hair on his chest, he panics briefly that someone might ask him. Not Iz, of course; Iz was at the party.

Poor old Charlie

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So Much Love by Rebecca Rosenblum

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