The Jan-Feb issue of the 2nd Rule that I guest-edited is out. It’s the memory issue: on how we are remembered, and on the trails we leave behind. And it has an updated version of this old short fiction piece:
Let’s start at the end, shall we? Stops you from playing guessing games. The end is “Tracks of My Tears” playing on my stereo, me sitting on the floor of my living room because the couch feels too – comfortable, I think – and somehow I feel I have to feel something. Yes, it’s a cliche and if someone looked on me right now filming it would be an ordinary scene in a made-for-TV movie; camera starts up from high and goes in, then circles around my head. Take a good look at my face.
***
We met during a heatwave in Boston, in those days when the Curious Liquids cafe was still around. Mercury at 100 – 35 Celsius, now that I’m back here – and sun bright enough that it was hard to look at the gold dome of the State House. I’d popped into the cafe for a drink, idly sat myself in one of the nooks downstairs, toying with a backgammon board.
Hot fun, summer in the city.
***
What’s on hers? She never did care about music enough to have a breakup song. Unless there was a song that happened to be playing in the background, on the TV, and it could be any song. It could be Al Green, “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?”, all apropos; it could be the theme to Green Acres. Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue.