He walks down the street after leaving the corner Korean grocery, a bag under each arm. He doesn’t know I’m watching. For the life of me I can’t imagine why not.
He’s let himself go.
The last time I saw him, it was New Orleans, 1913: Storyville. He had a room next to a bordello. Then, he was fit, alert. He made me within an hour and was gone, slipped out the back after paying a whore five dollars to make sex noises at his bedroom window. I shouldn’t have fallen for it; he’s been gay since before Julius Caesar.