Nobody goes into a pawnshop of their own volition. Massage parlors, check cashing stores, and pawnshops are bastard stepchildren of urban sprawl. Each was a necessary evil, providing unique services against the grain of suburban enlightenment. Seeking them out was akin to lighting a small piece of your soul on fire and inhaling the rancor smell of desperation and futility. 
 
These indoor flea markets permit voyeurs the schadenfreude of seeing someone’s unraveled life. Pawnshops all smell and feel the same. Mothballs tinged with crinkled, grease-stained bills and cut-rate ephemera. The red-eyed guilt of locking eyes with someone who was shopping out of necessity. This was not the trendy thrift store shopping rhapsodized in pop music. On the train line between Despair and Homelessness, this was one of the last stops.  
 
I didn’t enter willingly. Sometimes life dictates your actions in advance. 
 
On my first visit, I brought all the power tools I owned. A circular saw, saber saw, and a cordless drill. Once, they were the tools of my livelihood. I had no formal training, but I could talk a good game on any construction site and frame with the best of them. My white privilege meant the foreman was happy to have another English-speaking guy on the job to police things. They never bothered doing a background check on me. They should have been more concerned with policing me. Given the opportunity today, I’d steal every bit of copper piping I could. 
 
The bottle had a voracious grip on me. It was an expensive habit to feed, and power tools for jobs that no longer existed were useless to me.  Perhaps the dead-eyed crypt keeper behind the glass would pay enough to tie me over for a bit. It was an odd twist of fate selling the very thing that put food in your mouth. The irony was rich; unfortunately, you couldn’t rob irony.
 
The overextended markets and subsequent boom in housing ended like all other manias, with a flaccid whimper. Construction companies were underwater. Bloated with inventory that frequently succumbed to unexplained, freak fires. Shady developers could pull that off in California. Take out whole developments. Out there it was assumed to be an act of God. The result of climate change ignored by politicians whistling past the graveyard at 80 mph in Mercedes-Benzes with V-8 engines belching in wicked laughter. 
 
The same luck didn’t apply on the East Coast. A single fire was possible. Multiple fires were suspicious. Connecticut had more than its share of trial lawyers frothing at the possibility of a headline-grabbing fraud case. Anything to cover the Ivy League tuitions for their junior masters and mistresses of the universe in training.



On my second visit, I brought the shotgun my father gave me on my 17th birthday.
 
A rite of passage. 
 
My foray into manhood. 
 
As I ran my fingers along the polished chestnut stock and the length of the slender barrels, I was reminded of his only outward sign of respect, acknowledgment, or affection. A Churchill 28 gauge, side by side shotgun that easily cost him a month’s wages. It was a grossly negligent expenditure that the Chief had not run past my mother. 
 
I hustled it from my truck to the store. I didn’t need to catch the wandering eye of a local cop just itching to grind his boot down against my throat any further. My probation terms expressly prohibited access to any weapons. My licensed pistols had already been confiscated. Overzealous probation officers with spit-filled jowls salivated at the thought of tripping me up and sending the revolving door back to prison spinning. 
 
I wasn’t gonna make it easy for them.
 
The shotgun had remained well-hidden in my house. It had been an extension of my father for over thirty years. A proxy for his existence. Yet here I stood, rooted to the ground haggling with a scraggly-bearded hump of flesh lacking the ability to conceptualize tradition. His idea of honor was being loyal to his Fortnite clan and buying some lascivious skin for his female avatar to indulge his masturbatory fantasies. 
 
I was unloading a rite of passage into the Hot Pockets-stained hands of this vulture. He couldn’t comprehend the Norman Rockwellian visions I had of teaching my son to shoot. We would celebrate his first shot pheasant over a beer and whatever machismo rites of virility we could uphold. The bubbling, burgeoning of toxic masculinity at its finest, neutered by the long arm of the law. I was letting go of the gossamer-thin tethers that bound the generations of my family.
 
The Churchill, with its gorgeous Spanish inlaid detailing, was worth well over two grand. I couldn’t dare set foot 1000 yards near a gun show where I could easily get fifteen hundred or more. I was begging for $400. 
 
My son’s birthright. 
 
Not enough money to put a dent in rent, car payment, or doctors’ bills. It would cover my food and a selfish treat to numb the pain. 
 
The ghoul hemmed and hawed to avoid $400 like I was asking him to donate a kidney. I brightened at the thought of both chambers being loaded. His last vision would be of me seductively fingering the trigger and my shit-eating grin just before his grey matter was scattered over the original Imperial Japanese battle flag he proudly displayed behind the counter. 
 
I could turn the second barrel on me. We could be two headless horsemen in a steeplechase to Hell.
 
The grease-covered bills were pocketed as I sought the nearest decent liquor store. It wasn’t going to be a plastic bottle of bourbon night. I would imbibe the finest brown nectar that Kentucky’s oak-smoked barrels produced. Nothing but top-shelf booze for me. Maybe even splurge on a steak. Guns were ubiquitous; I could get one any time I wanted. 
 
If I needed.
 
Maybe I’d call my kid.
 
I’ll be damned if I even had his number.
 
 (c) Dutch Simmons

Mavis made the most out of Christmas despite being alone. Sipping Camomile tea Mavis smiled as she read the lovely comments of old friends in her Christmas cards from years gone by. Falling asleep on the sofa Mavis dreamed that she was young again and dating handsome men. Since her husband Len tragically died three years ago at Christmas there had been no one in her life.
She could have napped all afternoon, but Mavis remembered she needed a few more snacks for Christmas day. Whilst buttoning up her old duffle coat she spotted Bruce the pigeon on her lawn, named after her hero Bruce Forsyth. Throwing him some leftover bread she chuckled “You need fattening up my Brucie”.
Mavis headed up the street to the nearby Lidl, putting her unwanted pennies into the Salvation Army collection tin. Grabbing her favourite treats such as pork pies, cheeses, pickles, crisps, sprouts and a Christmas cake Mavis overloaded her basket and unfortunately dropped it. Sprouts rolled uncontrollably across the aisle and the cake was crushed. A wailing Mavis was comforted by a young assistant. Generously she replaced everything for Mavis and even let her keep the half empty bag of sprouts for free.
Back at her cottage Mavis listened to Handel’s Messiah as she worked her way through a bottle of Vodka. Being alone meant no one else cared what she did. Opening up an old Edwardian chest of drawers she pulled out a 19th century pocket pistol owned by her husband Len. Stroking the gem she closed her eyes recalling memories of the two of them together. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
Glancing out at the setting sun Mavis spotted Bruce again. “I knew I could count on you to be here for me” she grinned. Aiming the pistol Bruce was hit by her first shot. Placing Bruce on a roasting tray Mavis boasted “that is at least a twenty quid I have saved for charity thanks to you Bruce”. Glancing down the hall Mavis spotted a Christmas card lying on the mat in a bright red envelope. Mavis joked to herself “maybe the man of my dreams is coming after all”.
A rather hastily written message was scribbled inside the card which read,
“Merry Christmas Eileen, sorry I haven’t seen you in ages. I have tried ringing you a few times but have never caught you. I happen to be passing by on Boxing Day so will call in. Can’t wait” Love James.
Why was she getting a card for an Eileen? Mavis had a restless night tossing and turning. Memories of the tragic Christmas Eve from three years ago flooded back to her. Len’s jokes irritated her insanely, but shooting him was never intentional. She had not expected the pistol to be loaded. By New Year’s Day she was in jail and her family vowed never to see her again. Mavis had expected to see out her last days there, but a year later on Christmas Day the new chief prison officer Max Fudge made a glaring error. He mistook Mavis for the elderly mum of one of the inmates and let her leave. Humiliated Max Fudge never told anyone his error.
Fleeing Mavis remembered a hermit in a nearby village called Eileen. Mavis didn’t want to kill again, but Eileen lived a miserable life anyway she conceded. With the pistol hidden in her Bible case she took out Eileen just in time to watch the Queens speech. Mavis assumed Eileen’s identity with no one butting an eye lid. A neighbour concluded that Eileen must have finally had a haircut. Wrapping Eileen up tightly in green wrapping paper, Mavis waited until New Year’s Day before standing Eileen up amongst the conifers at a nearby Christmas tree nursery. With Eileen only being 4ft 8 Mavis thought,
“By the time these trees are tall enough for chopping down I will be long dead anyway”.
A ranger saw Mavis pulling a strange green shape along and got into an argument with his assistant saying “I told you not to spike my drink at the New Year’s Party last night”.
All had remained quiet for the two years since. Mavis had kept herself to herself to be just like Eileen. She had missed the company of others, but by creating fake online dating profiles she had some company.
Boxing Day dawned on Mavis quicker than she had hoped. Hearing a car door slam just as she was attempting to eat some porridge, Mavis pondered what to do next. Looking through the peephole she saw this James standing close by. In his mid-thirties with neatly combed back hair and glasses Mavis thought he looked every bit a banker. Opening the door with great gusto straight at him she knocked his glasses right off his face. Sliding down the front of his suit jacket they hit the floor and smashed into many pieces.
“Sorry darling I didn’t know you were so close” Mavis exclaimed putting on her croakiest voice. “I have got a terrible cold and can barely speak. Do take a seat in my lounge whilst I sort myself out”.
After reassuring James that the nearby petrol station was still open and sold reading glasses Mavis pretended to catch up with him. She told James her year was the same as ever. James then talked at length about his children before he was text by his wife Jenny and had to dash off. Sighing with relief Mavis knew she was safe.
Over Twixmas Mavis watched every soap opera possible to recover and got a few more freebies at the CO-OP because of some unfortunate accidents. For New Year Mavis adopted a tabby cat from the animal rescue. With Eileen still a registered member there she ordered her favourite cat by delivery not having to worry about the costs. On January 3rd another card landed on her mat from James which read,
“It was great to catch up with you Eileen. I hope that your cold is better. I really enjoyed my visit and will pop in again this week with Jenny and my five kids. I am taking a break from my plumbing”.
Dropping the letter Mavis looked blankly ahead and murmured “Why didn’t I just shoot him the first time”.

(c) Jonathan Hunter

​When she turned eighty, Wilhelmina knew that something important had happened. People began treating her differently. Apparently, they had decided that she was feeble in mind and body, but they had also decided that she was endearing and cute. Wilhelmina herself believed that she was strong in mind and body and that never in her life had she been endearing and cute. Maybe when she was one or two, but she couldn't remember back that far.
Her friends started to treat her differently after that momentous birthday. Francine, a friend who was only five years younger, called Wilhelmina the day after her party and was rather blunt.
"You'll have to begin taking it easy, my dear. Would you like me to start being your driver?"
"Francine, I'm perfectly capable of driving. I don't need a chauffeur."
"But, you know, once a person turns eighty, all sorts of things could happen."
"Such as?"
"Oh, I don't know, a stroke, a heart attack, an aneurysm. You could be a danger to other drivers. And to pedestrians. You never know."
"I'm in good health, Francine."
"Yes, well you never know. Then there's the brain to consider."
"There's nothing wrong with my brain."
"So you say, but you never know."
"I'll match my brain with yours any day."
"There's no need to be insulting."
"I'm not being insulting. Just truthful."
"I'm only trying to help. If that's the way you feel, well goodbye."
And before Wilhelmina had a chance to say anything more, Francine had terminated their phone call.
Her next helpful friend turned out to be Verna, who was only seventy.
"Well, Wilhelmina, are you ready to go to an assisted-living facility?"
"No. Why should I do that?"
"You could fall in your house. Remember that you live all by yourself."
"Well, not quite by myself. There's MacIntosh, my West Highland Terrier."
Verna laughed. "Now, do be serious, Willie."
"It's Wilhelmina. You know I like my full name. No nicknames, please."
"Oh, sorry. It's just that your full name is so long."
Wilhelmina snorted. "If I had my druthers, I'd have at least four names, like a queen. Maybe Wilhelmina Elizabeth Carolina Anastasia. Then I might get some respect."
"You're not being serious, are you?"
"Oh, I'll leave that for you to figure out."
"Well, you take care now, and let me know if you need anything. And if your brain starts to deteriorate, you know, if you forget certain things, make a list of what you've forgotten, and I'll help you."
"How can I make a list of things I've forgotten? That doesn't make sense."
"Huh? Well, bye for now."
Her friends' reactions to her eightieth birthday sent Wilhelmina into a depression. Well, not quite a depression. She definitely did not want to call it that. Instead, she called it an "off" mood. Yes, that was better. But she had to do something. Wilhelmina decided that she had to lead a campaign to show the world that being eighty did not mean the end of life.
But how was she going to do that? How was she going to begin a movement--yes, it had to be a movement--to give senior citizens the dignity they deserved? She had her radio on, and in the background she could hear a local talk show host, Ray Sunshine. She suspected that was not his real name.
Wilhelmina passed the questions of the call screener, who seemed patronizing. Perhaps she was just getting paranoid. But she had reason to be paranoid.
Suddenly there he was, Ray Sunshine, Ashleyville, Ohio's foremost--and only--afternoon talk show host.
"Wilhelmina, you're on the air. What's on your mind today?"
"Hello, Ray. I have a concern about old people. I turned eighty the other day, and two of my friends are already treating me like an invalid. I'm perfectly healthy in mind and body."
"Maybe we should go on a date, Willie. I'm available."
"It's Wilhelmina. And that's another thing. Sometimes people treat the elderly like children. They think they're cute and endearing. I'm not cute and endearing, and I'm certainly not looking for a date from a younger man. Or even an older man. What I want to do is start a movement, Mr. Sunshine."
"Just call me Ray. Or Raymond, if you prefer. It's not my real name anyway."
"Somehow I didn't think it was."
"All right, Miss Wilhelmina, what sort of movement do you want to start?"
"Just call me Wilhelmina, please. A campaign to give old people some respect. Don't assume we are like children. Don't assume we have lost our minds. Don't assume we all need walkers and canes. Don't assume that we can't live in our own homes. That sort of thing."
"I notice that you use the word old. You also said elderly. I thought we were supposed to say senior citizens or seniors or older."
"Those are all euphemisms, designed to make us feel better, I suppose, about aging. Oh, that reminds me. When I was in England on vacation a few years back, I saw that there were different prices for OAP. I didn't know what that meant until I asked. It meant Old Age Pensioners. That struck me funny. I kind of liked it."
"This is quite interesting, Wilhelmina. Do you have a name for your movement?"
"No. It was just today that I thought of doing something about this situation."
"How about a contest? We could ask our listeners what name to give your campaign."
"Any publicity would help. Sure. That sounds promising."
"All right, folks. Think about a name for Wilhelmina's campaign. An acronym is always a good thing, but it could just be one word, or two words. I'll talk with the station manager about a possible prize for the winner."
And the calls started to come in. Wilhelmina listened to some preposterous, stupid, and/or insulting names, the most memorable being SOAP, the Society of Aged People; CARE, the Community of Aging Retired Eccentrics; and CAT, the Community of Aged Tyrants. In some ways she liked that last one, but she didn't care for cats, so that acronym was out, and she was reasonably sure that she was the one who would choose the winner, even though Ray Sunshine hadn't specifically said so.
Then she heard another suggestion. "Hello, Mr. Ray Sunshine. thank you for taking my call. My name is Francine." Wilhelmina stopped drinking her coffee. Was that her friend, or her former friend, Francine? It sure sounded like her.
"Go ahead Francine. Do you have a suggestion for Wilhelmina's group?'
Francine sounded a bit nervous. "Well, yes. I suggest CASE. It stands for Community Avoiding Stereotypes of the Elderly. How does that sound?"
"Sounds pretty good to me. Well, Wilhelmina, if you're still listening, and I hope you are, call me back and we'll put you right through. We'd like to hear your opinion on these suggestions."
Wilhelmina grabbed her phone. Within moments she was back on the air. "Thank you, Ray, for letting me comment on the suggestions. At the moment I would say that CASE, Community Avoiding Stereotypes of the Elderly, is the best choice. Some of the other choices were funny and some were insulting. This one addresses the real problem, that of stereotyping. I even like the acronym CASE because it sounds rather objective, in a way. Ray, I assume I am the one who is allowed to pick the winner."
"Absolutely. So do you pick CASE, suggested by our listener Francine?"
"Yes. Yes, I do. And I thank her for understanding exactly what our new organization is designed to do."
"Very good. Francine, you're the winner. And I'm pretty sure that you will win what we usually give out on this program: dinner for two at the Avalon Restaurant right here in Ashleyville with its wonderful view of the Avalon golf course. Congratulations, Francine. You will need to call us back to give us your information. And no imposters, please! Glad your name isn't Ann or Mary." Ray Sunshine laughed heartily.
"Well, that's the end of our program for today. Always happy to serve our wonderful community. And remember to always add a Ray of Sunshine to your day! Goodbye, folks!"
Wilhelmina knew that she had lots more to do to erase those pesky stereotypes. She went to her computer and started a file of ideas, ideas about membership and projects and a newsletter and all sorts of things.
Then the phone rang. It was Francine.
"Wilhelmina, I just won dinner for two at the Avalon. Would you go with me? Please."

(c) Anita G. Gorman

Owen hung around outside waiting for Willow to appear. He kicked the dead leaves and said a prayer that she would be the next person to leave the library. For a brief moment, he contemplated rolling a cigarette, then decided against it. Willow hated to see him smoking.

The afternoon was reaching evening, with the last of the daylight ebbing away. Owen hated the autumn and winter months. He’d feel the sadness seeping in, the Black Blanket, he called it.

Willow was holding the door for the girl behind her, smiling, giggling. She skipped down the steps, her grey military coat buttoned up to the neck, her bag swinging like a pendulum.

- Were you waiting for me?
- Yes. I don’t like you walking home alone.
- How thoughtful of you.
- I am thoughtful, aren’t I? My halo needs polishing.

Willow ruffled Owen’s hair and stuck her tongue out at him. He smiled back.

He sometimes tried to pinpoint the moment when he fell in love with her. The exact day he knew. He remembered the outfit she wore, black jeans and a red jumper, but the precise moment was not clear.

They’d been early for their lecture and bought some lunch to eat together in the park. Owen recalled how Willow had dropped her sandwich on the grass. She laughed and threw it to the birds. He’d offered her his sandwich instead, which Willow halved and gave Owen his share.

Was it then? Or perhaps when Willow asked if birds would eat the chicken from her sandwich, and were they cannibals for doing so? Owen didn’t tell her she had mayonnaise on her bottom lip. Owen decided this was the moment he lost his heart to Willow Clements.

- Seagulls eat fish.
- You’re right, they do. Vultures eat carcasses. Silly me.




More birds congregated around them near their bench. The sparrows were Willow’s favourite. She warned Owen never to trust robins. Vicious little sods, she said. Bullies. Definitely not as sweet as they’re portrayed.

Owen leaned in with his napkin and wiped the mayonnaise from Willow’s mouth. There was a tiny window of opportunity when they looked into each other’s eyes. Willow giggled.

- I’m such a messy minx. That’s what my mum used to call me.

The day with the birds was a year ago.

Owen wanted to take her hand as they walked home to her flat, He wanted to hold it so tightly that she’d never be able to let it go.

- Have you finished your essay on Coleridge?
- Yes. It was due in today. Oh, Willow…
- What? I just wanted to ask.

She’d ask him questions all the time, about history and music and art. She asked his opinion on films and books they’d both read.

Owen walked on the outside, next to the kerb, a habit quickly formed from their first walk together. He found it more natural for him to be nearer the traffic than her. Willow never noticed and Owen never mentioned it.

- I’m supposed to be going out tonight. You know my friend, Laila, who studies Spanish, well, her boyfriend’s mate is having a house party. I’m being set up with the mate. I hate set ups - and blind dates. Laila thinks I need a boyfriend. The trouble is, every guy I meet disappoints me.

Owen bent down to tie his lace and touched Willow’s leg as if to ask her to stop and wait. He looked up at her and, for a second, he imagined them in years to come, a diamond solitaire ring in his pocket, then Willow’s shock turning to squeals of joy, as they hugged and kiss on the pavement. Yes, yes, yes. I will marry you, Owen Cheever.


Willow pulled Owen up by his coat sleeve and looked at him.

- Do you think I should go to the party?
- Why are you asking me?
- I don’t know.
- Do you want to go?
- Yes. And no.

They carried on walking until they reached the park gates and Willow stopped again. The sky had closed over. The purple flecks of evening were lost to blackness.

- I don’t like walking through the park when it’s dark.
- But we’re together.
- Will we ever be?
- What?
- Nothing.

Owen followed as Willow took the route around the park. The amber glow of the street lights made Willow less nervous.

There was nothing Owen could say that wouldn’t mean risking it all, and he wasn’t ready for that. He knew what he desperately wanted to say, he’d rehearsed the speech in front of his mirror countless times.

- Willow, I need to ask you something.
- What?
- Do you like me?
- You know I do. You get my crazy jokes, and I tell you everything… We’re friends--
- Friendship is a sheltering tree… It’s just that…

Willow’s phone rang. What he would have said was left hanging as he waited for Willow to end her call. The call didn’t end, though. It went on and on until Willow asked Owen if he wanted to walk on ahead. He didn’t. He wanted to wait. He stood by a red car and thought about the words that he heard and what they probably meant.

Listen, I don’t see the point. I won’t like him… Because I know, that’s why. Because I already like someone… No, you know all this. I told you. I don’t know… I hope so… I want to. I will… I need to go now. I’m with someone… He’s waiting…

Willow turned her back to Owen and then carried on talking.

What, now…? No, I’m not.

Owen felt crushed by three words, ‘No, I’m not’.

- I’m so sorry, Owen. Laila’s really working on me to go out with the guy at his party. It’ll never happen.
- What you said, was it true? I wasn’t eavesdropping, it’s just I couldn’t help but hear. Do you like someone already? You never told me.

Willow pulled some gloves out of her pocket and put them on, complaining about the sudden drop in temperature.

- I do like someone, yes. It’s more than like. Laila knows, but she says it’ll never come to anything, and it’s not - love - if the other person doesn't even know how I feel about them.
- So you haven’t told the someone you love them.

Willow laughed and stopped suddenly.

- God, no. You see, it’s kind of perfect as it is. I don’t know if he feels the same so I don’t want to risk losing him.


Owen looked at Willow. She was still and beautiful.

- What was the last thing Laila asked you on the phone?
- Why?
- Just tell me. What was it?
- It’s not important. Why do you want to know?

Owen was aware of the need to pull back, to change the direction of their conversation. They walked on. The moon was bright, unobscured by cloud. They approached the road where Willow lived. Owen looked up at the sky.

- They’re there, we just can’t always see them.
- What are?
- The stars.

Willow, stood in front of her house and gave Owen a hug, as she always did when they parted company.

- Enjoy the party.
- Thanks.

Owen had only gone a few yards when he heard Willow call out his name. She ran up the road and stood directly in front of Owen.

She smiled and took a deep breath before speaking.


(c) Liz Breen
​

The hand-delivered, brown manila envelope contained a written demand for an extortionate sum and rather gruesomely a sealed plastic bag containing a severed human ear. It was addressed to my wife and gave the location and time that a briefcase of cash should be left unless she preferred the further delivery of more body parts of her son.

This distressing news was tempered by the fact that said son was with us at the time we were reading the letter over breakfast. Having not been unaccountably missing or having the symmetry of his head ruined the letter did mildly distract us from the 21st birthday breakfast that Jean had just cooked.

Jean rather stoically suggested that with nothing to lose we should contravene the instructions in the letter to refrain from informing the police. Her only stipulation being to wait until we had finished the rather splendid full-English chilling in front of us.

In his statement to the constable later that morning, sat at the table containing the detritus of breakfast and wrapping paper from his presents, (the main one however was parked on the drive), we were astonished to learn that Gavin had previously received letters threatening kidnap at his University digs. He told the police officer that he’d decided they were just pranking and that since his step-fathers lottery win and subsequent publicity, he had probably been expressing himself rather too loudly. He resolved to focus more on his studies when he returned, since a degree was important to him; “despite being made for life” he quipped, winking at the policewoman.

Later Gavin explained that as an apparent bluff he had delivered a briefcase to a given location, containing only a note suggesting that they contact his step-father, he was the rich one, and he gave them my address. He even invited them to forfeit their anonymity by meeting him at his digs over the weekend. They were not to know he had other plans, were they?

In the meantime, we had been expecting the arrival of Gavin’s girlfriend Phoebe whom he’d spoken so fondly of. He had previously met her parents at a pheasant shoot and later he’d admired her dressage skills out on the mezzanine. We were somewhat disappointed therefore to learn that things had “cooled off” between them recently.

Still we jauntily exclaimed almost in unison to try and keep his spirits up, Stuart will be along for drinks later? He’d known Stuart since lower school and they’d been joined at the hip by middle-school. Stuart didn’t get into University on account of his rare attendance at upper-school, but he’d visited Gavin a number of times, hadn’t he?

Gavin agreed that he had and it seemed he’d got along with Phoebe rather too well, but still no hard feelings. Phoebe remained at her digs and he’d rather generously offered Stuart his room for the weekend. It’s amazing how good friends can just live in the moment like nothing ever happened.


(c) Steve Goodlad