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Show Cardboard Sky-5 my Emily she opens her mouth to moan under his weight and the gold tooth flashes a warning. I went to college with Harrison Cost. The man I was twenty-two years ago went to college with the man Harrison was twenty-two years ago. It's all we can do to recognize each other. The last time I was at his place his future wife touched my thigh when he wasn't looking. While he was in the kitchen she blew softly in my ear. Under the circumstances there isn't a damn thing I can do. Harrison is on his own. The air is too soft in Santa Monica; the Valley air makes you feel up upon and glad to be alive. If I stay too long in S.M. I feel myself beginning to blur around the edges. To live in Santa Monica you have to be a beast or a god. Harrison is neither and he'd better get out before it's too late. His fourth wife still loves him. Sometimes she hangs around the elevators of his building, hoping to catch a glimpse of Harrison going or coming. Or she moons about in the park, looking up at his windows. After our son was born Emily refused to get out of bed; I had to stay home, boil formula, change the baby, clean house, hold things together. She stayed in the bedroom with the covers pulled over her face and the TV turned up loud. She ate alphabet soup and drank bourbon and water. It was a son of a bitch for a couple of weeks, and then I got the hang of it. |