Fiction

Third narrative. Auto fiction. Hybrid narrative, Semi autobiography. Made up.

Years ago in New York I knew a man with an even disposition. He hummed show tunes to himself. By night he played piano at a cabaret and by day wrote copy for a scrap metal newspaper. He wrote the entire newspaper with headlines such as “Steel Prices Stainless” and “Nonferrous Market Resists Rust.” I was married. If I had ever been in love, I fell out of love when I got married. The scrap metal writer would host gatherings in his Hell’s Kitchen walk-up. People would lean against exposed brick walls, holding jelly jars of wine, and I would feel glamorous. The scrap metal writer’s songs were meant to be satires, but he was too even-tempered to be biting. I would have followed anyone into a cabaret and out of marriage. Afterward, I missed it.

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