I prepare a cup of coffee and plan to spend half the night reading and writing reviews. I can’t sleep. I know I won’t be able to. Certainly not after my day and evening with Jobe.
An hour slips by. The cup of coffee is gone. I’m ready to write an eight hundred-word review of a short book called Timeless French, a love story between two men by an Italian writer named Xavier Monticello. I fall in love with the short book and its tale, having every intention of keeping it and placing it in my library. Honestly, I do. Just as I’m about to begin writing, I hear three taps on the front door.
I place my tablet down—I always write by freehand and in pencil—and walk to the door. Half of me expects to see Jobe at the door’s screen, dry and all smiles, finally wanting to share a nightcap with me. I
