This is not a sleazy story. Brief, dark, metaphorical, but not sleazy. I hope readers will take this within context and without prejudice.
A story of a man spending a night in a brothel. The following morning, she was tired and asleep. Quietly, he left by the bedside, and paid a good service , a few dollars. Took the door and was never to be seen again. That was a decent goodbye.
This writer was not even good enough for.
... my other garden ;)
About Me
- Irma
- I'm not a graceful person. I'm not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2AM, I am gunshots muffled by a few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull thud, and I apologize for my awkward sadness. I sometimes believe that I don't belong around people, that I belong to all the leap days that didn't happen. The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. You don't see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.
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