You cut your hair short, I see. You sport a different nickname whose sounds will remain forever foreign to me because we never speak. Obviously we frequent the bar where all the spoiled private university kids glamorize their woes by drowning what their bitchy professors would call vicissitudes with expensive alcohol so that their troubles would not surface to confront them. Your new...
On special occasions I wear the costume of a sorrowing man. My prop is a mess of sudsy hair and a still soaking bath towel wrapped around a body that shivers mid-morning. These days, I celebrate the intermittent anniversaries of your fingerprints under the dampness.