The rain swept the avenue most of the night. She was hot,
sticky and waiting – always waiting as she did for most things. They had made
love with the windows open, not that anyone had complained - that old Italian grandfather
on the third floor would always sing operas into the wee small hours. Sleep in
that Brownstone was hard to come by. Her man said he was going down to 8th
to get a newspaper and then he’d bring her breakfast. There was a war on, and he’d
constantly talk of jumping ship. She knew he wasn’t coming back.
bobby stevenson 2020
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