“Gordon, your mother is waiting for you by the library,” the dorm captain told him, standing at the door of the cubicle that he shared with five other boys. The dorm captain was a big and cruel hairy ape of a man.
Someone emailed and asked why I don’t write about Tamms anymore, did we break up? (Ho-ho-ho.) It’s because she’s 10 years now, a few months shy of 11-years. And it’s a big deal. I know you must think,
“Should I take off my clothes?” I ask.
I’m standing against the wall. She’s standing across the table. She has glasses on. The room is small and bare and functional, a place you could sustain any form of ritual.
Somewhere down a damp, patchy-grassed, walled corridor separating two blocks of houses in a South B estate, a man bangs on a metallic gate in the shadows cast by the early morning sun. It’s 7:25am,