Righter

“That’s what I want.” She tempted me with her smile. “What can a writer give to a woman who has forgotten the past?”

I smoked. Inhale, hold, exhale. What could I give her? Inhale, hold, exhale. What could a writer offer this beautiful stranger in a blue dress? Inhale, hold . . . Eureka, a greater man than me exclaimed, streaking through the streets of Syracuse. I exhaled and cleared my throat. “I offer something better than a name: a story.”