“Yes, and perhaps a paper towel
or two,” he says, trying to be
funny. Obviously we’ve gone
too far. Would you like to walk
down to Walgreen’s with me at
3am? He’s still reading arguments
into the night, flashpoints of anger
and jealousy. O’Hara, my brother,
my incarnation, I’m just a draft sit-
ting in a fixture. I’m a few pages of
romance, a dime a dozen, trying to
breathe during a rainstorm. I am SF.
We pocket our hotel soup and
head out before the storm arrives.
