I am very fortunate that a couple weeks after a horrendous breakup, a friend read this story aloud to me, a reminder of how ridiculous romantic relationships often are. The object of affection is a man named Horace whose “place was tidy and a bit surprising. He showed me his sword cane and his living room features an owl that’s made of poultry feathers.”
First published in The Paris Review 230, Fall 2019, and available for subscribers to read here; collected in How High? – That High, Soho Press, 2022
A Personal Anthology 