He Has Gone to Be with
the Women


The slant of morning light made him look like he was about to catch on fire.

Every Sunday he was there. A singular, solitary figure—but not sad and not lonely. And not tragic. He became the main character of a story I was writing in my head. The first sentence would read, Some people are so beautiful that they belong everywhere they go.

I always noticed what he was reading: Dostoyevsky, Kazantzakis, Faulkner. He was in love with serious literature. And tragedy. Well, he lived on the border. And on the border you could be in love with tragedy without being tragic.

People on couch
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