Gerry walked me home, though my apartment was a two-minute walk from theirs; it was three in the morning and we’d been drinking. He climbed the four flights of stairs and sat down so scary pale that I asked what’s up and he said I am in love with you and don’t know what to do. I clasped his hoary face in my hands and kissed it and he kissed me back and I sat on his lap and we kissed and kissed while the phone rang and rang, his wife on my machine mumbling where the bugger are you?
Michele Markarian is a playwright and short fiction writer. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with her husband, son, and prehensile-tailed skink. Facebook: Michele Markarian Twitter: @MicheleMarkaria