One time, her mom had showed her the shoeboxes full of letters in that old room. The stream-of-consciousness love notes from her father, from when they first started dating and he was living in Europe, dropping acid and hitchhiking to hippie communes under dolorous gray skies in post-war Citroëns. The letters from her mother’s various boyfriends at music camp, math camp, French camp. Diary entries about would-be lovers and real-life lovers. Snapshots of life as longing.Read More
She held the old man by his throat.
“Let me tell you a story,” he said to her. His face red was with strain. “Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this before.