This is the eleventh chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.
He’s no closer to home. Not his home, anyway. Maybe hers. Who knows. We’ll see.
He’s met women in many places, but a men’s washroom is a first for him. A men’s washroom where she was mopping up someone else’s emesis. And now she’s here in this other bar that looks like a famous painting. And it’s he-still-doesn’t-know-but-it’s-been-dark-a-while o’clock. Continue reading
Sesquiotica 