Dining al fresco in a tony deli. A crisp grey afternoon. I sit with my lover, a professor of ethics. Intricate mosaics by local artists on the wrought iron table tops. Funky eclectic decor. A harpist plays on the patio. An all-organic menu. I offer to go dutch, but he waves away my offer of the MasterCard. "No worries–it's on the house", he smiles warmly. "I'm filing next week". "What? The divorce?", I ask. "No silly"–touching my hand lightly. "The bankruptcy. More wine?" I realize how often he talks with his mouth full and shudder.
a heavy smell of swollen air
before the first fat drops