The forty year old roommate

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Lenny,

I need help. It’s not working out anymore. My mind can’t remember what I’ve cooked and eaten, or whose dishes are whose, or who bought what apples.

I’m too old to have you as roommate.

I ate another green apple today, only I’m not sure it was mine.

I was sure enough—to open the plastic wrapped bag, take one out—but that was yesterday. Today, there’s another apple missing, and I only had one. Now I’m thinking, are you eating my apples, or am I eating yours?

You have loud sex. I know your Continue reading The forty year old roommate

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Andrew Fitzerbart

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Erasing his past with an unidentifiable device—that looked more or less like a shiny tie-clip—Andrew Fitzerbart, turned, smiled, and ooze-ingly strained “Hello.”
“Hello, Mr. Fitzerbart,” replied Cynthia McIntire, equally silky but with a pang of pure tin.
“Darling, it’s ‘Mr’ in the evening. Do call me Andrew,” he said, while fingering the shiny clip. Continue reading Andrew Fitzerbart