Mr. Friday
Part 1: July 8, 20—, The Gatherers
Mitchell Meed has his right palm clenched on my left kneecap, consoling me. He smells clean, of sandalwood soap and Prell shampoo. He looks handsome in my black suit, white shirt, and black tie. The suit looks similar to one of his, but he’s borrowed it from my closet for the day. Mitchell looks better in the suit, anyway. He’s wearing my hair gel, too. He’s not sporting my underwear though, in fact, any underwear, because he complains of feeling uncomfortable in them. He wanted to borrow my Italian loafers to the funeral, but I wear a size twelve and he wears a size ten—too bad.
He leans into me and whispers, “How are you?” He’s asked me this approximately one hundred times in the past four days, concerned about me, and attempting to help m
