She’s sitting alone at the second to last row of empty chairs in the dim foyer where the poetry readings are. I wonder where I’ve seen her—is she a doctor, a nurse, one of James’s therapists? Her sneakers, like the white paws of a black cat, are the single diversion from her black jeans, black puffer jacket, the black-rimmed glasses under her yellow hair, and no makeup, not even lipstick to hide her age.
This story is free to read on the author’s substack.
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