When you visit our website, if you give your consent, we will use cookies to allow us to collect data for aggregated statistics to improve our service and remember your choice for future visits. Cookie Policy & Privacy Policy
Dear Reader, we use the permissions associated with cookies to keep our website running smoothly and to provide you with personalized content that better meets your needs and ensure the best reading experience. At any time, you can change your permissions for the cookie settings below.
If you would like to learn more about our Cookie, you can click on Privacy Policy.
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