So I’m back at 3rd & Pennsylvania in Southeast DC once again, with a seat by the window looking out the window at the soggy and dismal gray streets with their half-naked trees. They’ve already got the holiday music on full blast in here. Visited my brother (he says he hasn’t tried to bench press his goal of 315 yet, but he can do multiple sets of 265 with no problem: at least somebody’s in shape for the holidays) and later had a fine Thanksgiving dinner with my dad and his sister and her family. The drive down from New England was pretty bad, as I knew it would be even though I religiously avoid I-95, and I’m not much looking forward to the trip back up. And the girls are with me, and they’re a little freaked out. Lots of climbing up and begging to be held.
So — on the day after the number one dysfunctional family holiday — I’ll offer a dysfunctional piece of short fiction as my Friday non-dissertational; a story about needles and adultery. It’s one of my rougher stories, and I still wince when I see the tough-guy tone and the clich
I’m sorry I didn’t read this before. I’m not weird about needles because I gave myself my own allergy shots but the ending catheter description was difficult for me (only probably because I thought I’d covered any “sticky” points in the beginning and catheters conjure up a different image altogether). I think this is the first of yours that I’ve read from 1st person and that was my first thought. It seemed to switch in energy somewhere halfway, between being male/female to male/male (and that section seemed much stronger) and it jarred me a little, but maybe that was just me. It seemed more personal than some of your other fiction.