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Dear Liza

I have a hole in my pocket. Lose stuff all the time. You name it. Stuff doesn't stay lost for long. It stays in the lining of my jacket. Big coat. Getting bigger every year. Sometimes I see the shape of lost stuff through the leather—ray bans, parker pen, a wallet with two twenties. And some hard miles, too.

I considered asking a tailor to make repairs but then all that stuff— movie ticket, harmonica, potato peeler would be forever sewn inside and the coat's getting heavy— like those lead vests they give you in x-ray.

Sometimes odd stuff reappears when least expected.

This morning. I ordered coffee and discovered I'd lost another billfold to the lining of the coat. The barista gave me the eye.

So I thought.

"Love your coat."


"I covet it," she whispered, handing over a cup of Guatemalan.

I nodded. Handed her a toothbrush that surfaced where my wallet had been. She placed the toothbrush in the register next to a pocketknife and a comb, never taking her eyes off my coat, perhaps even undressing me. I marveled at her dexterity— the way some typists tap keys without looking.

"How much for the coat?"

"You name it."

"I'm not gonna buy it. I like to look at what I can't have and let it go, " she breathed. Her biceps were defined, her eyes a piercing blue.

I shivered. Left a roll of duct tape in the tip jar.

Story by:

Guy M Biederman

4 June 2017