I thought the in between times would feel flat, numb, vacant. I am looking out my screen door on a hot night studded with stars. I can hear an old fan hum as it tries to cool off my stifling hot bungalow. I’m smoking a Lucky Strike with a tumbler of whisky and ice held against my hot cheek. It is 1952 and I am waiting.

These in between times are filled with silence and heightened senses and listening for the sound of your footsteps and the careless slamming of an old screen door as once again you come home.

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