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Two Stories about Loss

I. The Old Man. My daughter bustles in with some bags of groceries distracting me from the paper. She shouts out, “Hi daddy!” and runs toward the little kitchen. She’s always running. I’ve never seen anyone with as much energy as her, except maybe her mom. She’s probably got a date with some boy tonight so

The Appointment

I find myself on the steps of my brownstone, pulling on my overcoat. I feel the weight of the pistol in the pocket and wonder what the hell it’s doin’ there. I snap on the safety and slip it into the holster under my arm. That would be rich. If I put my hand in my pocket and ended up shooting off my own goddamn foot. If the cops

Leaving

It seems that we’ve been at it for days but it has really only been all of a dull, grey, raining November afternoon. It is warm in the kitchen. First it is her turn and then I try. There seems to be no way to get ourselves out of this mess. The tears run down her face. I don’t know how I could ever have let this happen to us. She is