Following his exit, I had to close the door so I could discover my breath, so I could stop my heart from thump…thump…thumping in my chest because I honestly thought it was going to explode just as the swollen package between my legs had already done, leaving ooze behind in my boxers yet again, a sticky and bothersome load; another mess to clean up thanks to my hired help.33: Just Like Me
He wouldn’t let the topic of Rosemary Dublin go. Rather, Tacoma prepared eggs Benedict for us on the morning of the thirtieth-first, the last day of July—slices of fresh fruit, pulpy orange juice, sunny-side-up eggs, and buttered toast—and we shared breakfast on the library’s narrow balcony overlooking the pool. There, positioned across from me at a two-person, wrought-iron table, he brought up Rose Dublin again.