He was twenty-two and still finding his way. I was leaning forward. My mate and I had discussed her demise. I remember gently asking how long I should...wait... "Well, I might like to start dating?!" Jesus, Bob! Get your shit together, man. I'll be dead. What the fuck do I care!" We never discussed it again. I quit work shortly after she passed on and bought the condo a month later with her life insurance money. The house was a quick sale and now I was standing at one end of my kitchen listening. My long hair was either braided or worn loosely over my shoulders and down my back. It was (and of course, still is) long and dark, not really black, not really brown. My parents were hard-working and not very much interested in what I was doing. I didn’t have anything like a time to come home or be in bed, do my homework or whatever else. I took care of myself and dealt with things the way I wanted. At 14 (a birthday which had been forgotten), I was nevertheless rather shy and not sure of. More

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