Potential
Kate tells him that she wants a beer to bear her name so she might meet the lips of a thousand young men. Lev is still tasting the residue of his new, citrus-flavored toothpaste. This stuff must leave more decay than my cereal, he replies, and looks at her sweetly. Hi baby, she says; Hi baby, he says and moves closer. Lev steals her nose with a pinch of two fingers. This is Saturday.
Saturday in San Francisco assembles the unimposing: While-U-Wait shoe shops, nail clippings in the creases of sheets, long Pinocchio-armed trees holding green pom-poms, a menagerie of things left in...
Sorry, but comments are disabled for this article.