“Dante? Lei ascolta, regazzo?” “Yes, Mamma. I’m listening.” He looked out over the city lights, becoming increasingly fuzzy through the thickening clouds outside the window, from his massive velour couch. Why had he let his designer talk him into cream for a color? Why had he let her get something so huge? No, not huge. The cushions felt empty. Like his days and nights had felt since Sunday. He took another swig of scotch and scowled. On the stereo, his “morosity music mix” r...estarted itself. Johnny Cash started singing about needles and broken thoughts. After him, the Eagles, Bob Dylan, Radiohead, and Billie Holiday would have their turns at the hit parade of depression. Get the fuck over it. She’s not going to call. You tried to open her baggage; she threw the locks on and tossed the key. Congratulations, man. You found the one woman on the globe who thinks your money is filthy, your touch is tainted, your experience is a liability, and even your jokes are half-good at best.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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