What kind of drug is he on? Something synthetic called Prime or Dose or Mix, I’m sure. Gerald knows me. I’ve been to his store numerous times. We’ve shared dozens of conversations about Agatha Christie missing, queer James Baldwin, and Zelda Fitzgerald’s insanity.
He asks with a crooked left eyebrow, “Where’s Putnam?”
“New York City. On business. He’ll be back in two days.”
“Hmmpphhh,” he says. “Guess he forgot about our dinner date.”
“Dinner date?” I ask.
“Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, salad, and golden-brown biscuits. I even brought an apple pie. It’s in the kitchen waiting for him…us.” He wipes drool away from his lower lip, checking out my firm chest. He sighs heavily, shakes his head once, twice. “Maybe I forgot to tell him I was coming over. I tend to do that
