It’s Monday, I’m off work and need to run errands. Time for a Fiction in 58.
He thinks in stereo. That’s what he says.
It stops her cold, he’d bet on that.
He’s badly outmatched.
“Twenty four tracks, all going at the same time.”
“That still doesn’t excuse leaving the baby in a sinkfull of tepid water.”
“It’s not like she died or anything,” and cringes as the words come tumbling out.