Because he’d forgotten how long you both had been married, because you’d gone back to school and taken an evening position at the hospital, because the children were no longer children and, like you, refused to respond to his smile, because his job had become an open wound that bled him of imagination and dreams, because he’d met her at an event he’d attended alone and went to her on the terrace where she stood, her back against the balustrade and the evening azalea-breeze playing with her silk blouse revealing and concealing the forms of her breasts, because they’d danced, she leading, as if teenagers, and then, returning to the table, held hands, because she emitted a feral scent that made his breathing arrhythmic, because when he leaned into her in the cab to kiss her good bye, she invited him to spend the night, because the warmth in her lilt, in her smile made him kick off his shoes, because as they lay in bed he felt a familiar presence and rolled towards her cupping her body with his then, putting his arm over her breasts, he kissed the nape of her neck and whispered your name.
was born January 1, 1950 in Queens, New York City, New York. As a student of the University of Cincinnati he focused on the Greek, Latin, German, and French languages and World Literature. After running the family business for 20 years, he graduated from the University of Maine School of Law and was accepted to the Bar in 2002. He practiced Immigration Law in the State of Maine for over 18 years. He has published stories with Flash Fiction Magazine, New Reader Magazine, 34th Parallel Magazine, Literally Stories, and Potato Soup Journal.
