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Four nights straight she waits on the stranger, a single at a four-top paying for cans of Pabst from the stack of tens he pulls from his pocket. He smells like Mafia, all oil and secret. She loves how the star-shaped scar puckers his lip, what passes for a smile: Keep the change.

Fifth night she hands over the keys to her old Cadillac. For hours, they pass a silver flask between them, make bets on what's Mars or stars. By the time the cops find her car fin deep in the Erie Canal next morning, he's long gone, along with a purse full of cash and a pair of brand new panty hose.

No to the mug shots, not him or him or him. She bets Vegas or maybe Miami, a yacht at sunset, no ooh and aah for him. He's all about the full moon, a fat yellow lollypop, enough lick and howl to last a lifetime. Every damn dog will answer to his name.

Story by:

Sarah Freligh


29 July 2018