Tell Me In Italian.
pia z. ehrhardt
Posted on November 4, 2015
“Mike is stretched out now on top of his clean desk, resting, the mug balanced on his chest, and I put the phone back in the cradle and lean over to kiss the curve in his chin. He is my CPA. We’ve been having an affair for ten months, and we meet when we can, here, or some days we just get in the car, drive across the river to Plaquemines Parish, and follow the levee until it runs into the Gulf. I’m a location scout, and last week I took him to check out Grand Coteau, featured him in some Polaroids I’ve got taped to my refrigerator door. I’m thirty-five, and he is younger by a few years, my height, slight.”
A short story from Narrative Magazine
Categories: Fiction, Short Story