Existential Crisis Got You Down? These Novels Addressing Our Struggle For Modern Identity: Guest Blog

There comes a point in every person’s life where one’s identity comes into play. Questions like, Who am I? and for some the deeply moving, What am I?

Not only provocative but deeply

i love english literature

1. The Road by Cormac McCarthy

Synopsis:

The Road follows a father and son, journeying together for many months across a desolate, post-apocalyptic landscape, some years after a great, unexplained disaster. Civilisation has been destroyed, and most species have become extinct. The sun is obscured by deep, dark clouds and plants don’t grow. Humanity consists largely of groups of cannibals, their food-source captives, and refugee-travellers who scavenge for food. Ash covers everything; it is in the atmosphere, it obscures the sun and moon, and the two travellers breathe through improvised masks.

The boy’s mother was overwhelmed by the desperate and hopeless situation and has committed suicide some time before the story begins. Her explanation, offered was that they all would be raped, killed and eaten, and that there was no hope left for a different fate. The father is skilled with firearms and knowledgeable about machinery, woodcraft, and human biology…

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On the Revolutionary Power of Diverse Thought: Elif Shafak

“So from populist demagogues, we will learn the indispensability of democracy. And from isolationists, we will learn the need for global solidarity. And from tribalists, we will learn the beauty of cosmopolitanism and the beauty of diversity.”

Author Elif Shafak presents a stimulating call to action, urging PEOPLE, all people, we the people, the collective, the hive mind, who actually have control and authority than we realize, to stand outside our comfort zone. To defend the weak. To life untethered by tribe, whether its “American” or “Arab: “Black” or “White:” “Muslim” or “Buddhist:” “Young” or “Old.”

More than ever we must resist the temptation to follow leaders who are unwilling to acknowledge these very truths.

I hope you find her lecture as moving as I do and please share your thoughts. Would you agree with Elif?

Sketching Sites: Aqaba, Jordan from the Art of Exploration.

الْأُرْدُنّAl-‘Urdunn, Aqabah

Sun Blazing, the Red Sea, still, cool with Spring. I sit over Cafe Salaam, coffee, freshly roasted with cardamom and a handful of roasted nuts, wedged between an abundance of potted sage and a crumbling banister.

Open my sketchbook and look into the valley…

…Al-Sharif Al Hussein Bin Ali Mosque — open air markets winding and knotted, where camel heads swing from butcheries and parrots are sold hand over fist — all common fare. Beyond the mosque, the water opens in an uninterrupted display of coral and sunset pink, shipwrecks spot the depths like freckles between Egypt and Jordan.

al-Aqaba sketch

Could there be a better rooftop for writers and their manuscripts on a romantic getaway?

NAH!

Let’s hear it, tell me about your favorite rooftop experience. Where? Why?

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Flash Poem to Self: “Be confident, not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar:” On Writing, the Bohemian Lifestyle, and Balancing Art/Mind.

be confident — not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar.

be, act, speak with intention.

be finished, shop your novel. 

be-gin and finish the next one.

be published, and write freely.

be mindful and in tune with your environment

be kind

be gentle

be better.

be 29

be.

Just be – be OK with that. 


I wish you prosperity. I wish you health and wellness. I wish you success, and that all those dreams and whimsies come to find you.

How are your goals for 2018 coming along?

Project Roama: Stories of Humanity.

Hello my dear friends!

It has been a long time. I imagine we’ve all put a number of fresh miles below our feet and hearts. With 2018 behind us and new roads ahead. I look forward to catching up in the New Year and to hearing from all of you. As always, thank you for your indispensable, inexhaustible kindness and for gifting me with your time, which I know, is a rare and precious commodity in this age of distraction.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

My gratitude is boundless.

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I would love to have your opinion on my newest project Roama: Stories of Humanity. an interactive website of like-minded, worldly souls swapping stories, music, recipes, photography and poetry from people all across the world — special attention given to cultures often misrepresented and overlooked.

When my house flooded in 2017 — just after I prematurely quit my job to pursue these goals — I quickly learned the sobering reality of Real Life, whatever it is, and it’s been quite difficult to get back to the art, to the passion and to re-stabilize. Right now I work exclusively from an old iPhone, and an even older tablet! I am launching this campaign to invest in a computer and to fully launch my newest dream and I ask, if you feel at all moved or inspired by my work, be it the novels, the photography, writings, poetry or some deep-rooted kindred connection (I feel it too!), please consider making a contribution. Help me bring these dreams to the light of day.

Thank you so much for being a part of my life and for taking your time to connect with me. Please feel free to reach out, i’d love to hear from you!

Cheers and happy roamings,
Nicholas

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How To Tagine: Taste & Smell Morocco – feat. The Ethnic Spoon.

It was 2012.

While the rest of humanity prepared for the Mayan Apocalypse, I was in the process of selling off ALL my belongings, the profits of which went towards a one-way ticket to Africa and a few months of vagabonding to, you know, “figure out my life.” While researching my first stop –a little known Kingdom called Morocco!– I came across an article about this peculiar dish called tagine. Growing up in an international family I’m naturally obsessed with global cuisine and this is my absolute favorite.

Even the name is sexy.

Say it with me, “Tah-Jeen.”

See! Don’t you feel more exotic?

No plans of visiting a Moroccan bazaar? A quick jaunt to Sur La Table will seal the gap between your grill and Marrakech as we travel together, in our shared craving for the exotic.

Oh, look at you with that shiny new Tagine. Welcome to a new you. Hi there. Here’s the thing. This is my favorite disk. Well, that I have personally made. so IMO, buying a tagine is a tremendous investment. Not only will you impress others but your abilities will be forever evolving. As this is one of the worlds most enchanting dishes.

But it was in the Kingdom itself that I had my first tagine. A friend of mine knew of a place, in a village way up in the Atlas Mountains, a day drive from Marrakech. The kind of place with rickety plastic tables, and shredded tarpaulins as tablecloths. Yet, where dining over the tagine was no less than a ceremony. It was dimly lit, in this crag on the mountain, in the banks of a river carrying icemelt from the previous winter.

We ordered the lamb which came out sizzling on a bed of onions, carrots and garlic surrounded by green olives, dates, and preserved lemons in a rich oily sauce. This being my first meal in 21 hours I dug in eagerly. It may be cliche but this truly was a surreal experience, chowing down, pouring mint tea late into the night.

The next evening I found myself lost in the ancient markets, stumbling down cobbled alleys and seeking to end the craving, like some junkie, shuffling for my next fix and finally with feverish delight slipping through the corridor of an invite-only restaurant: where belly dancers, in sheer skirts and charming bras, were swaying about as clouds of hookah smoke billowed about to the tunes of a hypnotic flute.

…good memories. #takemeback.

Now, back in the states, I’ve had to learn to master the dish for those frequent cravings. This is the most true, and most manageable recipe i’ve found online.

Image and recipe by the Ethnic Spoon

tagine-chicken-1

Ingredients

  • 1/2 cup onion chopped
  • 1 cup water
  • 2 garlic cloves minced
  • 2 Roma tomato cored and diced
  • 1/4 cup peas frozen
  • 3 carrots sliced
  • 2 Tb olive oil
  • 1 tsp curry
  • 1 tsp chili powder
  • 1 Tb fresh parsley chopped
  • 1 tsp Kosher salt (paleo diet: sea salt)
  • 3 lbs chicken whole roaster cut into pieces
  • 1 lb potatoes (paleo diet: sweet potatoes)

FOR FULL RECIPE & INSTRUCTIONS CHECK OUT The Ethnic Spoon. I absolutely love Analida’s blog and recipes. They’re among my go-to websites.

Et Voila! Have you come across any dishes abroad that left a huge impression?

N. Andriani

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New York City and the Hunt for Turkish Shoes.

It was during my long and dusty sojourn in the Middle East when I first saw them. Buried deep in this old collapsed village, on the far end of town where the market spills into a sea of sand and slate. My boots had worn thin, literally, threadbare the cheap rubber soles were no thicker than a sheet of paper and I was due to return to the excavation any minute. Pressed for time I went to the tattered edge of an old cobblers shop and there they were, hanging in pairs of two, from the vaulted ceiling down to the cobbles like lattice.

The Turkish Yemeni

Now, i’m not the most fashion-driven or even fashionable guy, but the effortless, dare I say, timeless cool of these utilitarian shoes embedded deep within my heart. So much so that I refused to wear anything else –weather climbing, hiking, excavating or swimming the coral banks of the Red Sea (true!).

But it wasn’t until I returned to America that their spell had fully settled in. When I was heartbroken to find my home country a desert for yemenis…

Then in 2012 I met the Sabah Dealer.

Continue reading “New York City and the Hunt for Turkish Shoes.”

El Violin: Valencia ( A Love Poem to the Spanish City of Oranges

Rhythmic swells reverberate trough my lungs. The back streets of Valencia.

Back street Europe.

Romani enclaves and gypsy parts of town.

We’ll sit here in the Plaça de la Virgen with our stiff sangria, smartly bashful in red-faced delerium.

For it is Spring and the blossoms have begun to sing.

A nod to blanco nerium.

Have We Met? Subscribe + Like = Gifts

Did you know that every week I draw a name from my mailing list and send out a personalized gift?

Sign up and you could be next.

Who knows, if i’m in Morocco maybe i’ll send you a crystal from the Sahara. If in California, a shell. Or if i’m home in my lonely Middle West i’ll send you a book based on our friendship. Or some local chocolates. Mhmmm.. chocolate.

c Flash poems and much, much more.

So, what are you waiting for?

Sketching Sights: Istanbul, City on the Edge (Art. Travel. Writing. Islam. Architecture)

The Bosphorus splits Istanbul in two parts. A rift in the madness of Europe and Asia, drifting between bodies of fresh and salt water cooling the heated passion of a most ancient urban jungle.

The hot, hot, heat of human movement generates organized chaos as this great strait, this rift, cushions the blow, keeping this romantic city on its axis.

Gulls parade our smooth cruise to the Black Sea as Istanbul, in all its glory, surrounds us reaching out with minarets and the omnipresent aromas of a heavily spiced city.

It’s here, in the interstitial space between East and West, that time stands still…

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Ten Songs for Winter: For Rich Emotion, Deep Inspiration, and Lucid Dreamin’.

You know how it goes:] the blustery mornings. Watery eyed and minus-7. The frozen pipes and snowed in nights. The red faced wind burns. But look at that, the stars have never been so sharp –outlined in the thin air like diamonds under keen inspection.

So i’m being dramatic here, but such is the nature of winter. Winter is drama. Winter is pensive. Winter is in your face!

Over the course of 2018 I have been snowed in. Snowed out. Pipes froze. Face burned. Face froze. But good God it’s beautiful.

Thrown together with the right mix of tunes, winter becomes a romantics paradise. An adventurous escape.


These brooding, crisp winter nights are new to me -having grown up in Austin. Sao, whether it’s fireside, sipping warm brews or hovering over the Chemex at 5 am — my senseless procrastination has but one common solution, to wake up as at 5am — to fill my writing quota (this novel isn’t going to finish itself, right?) these are the songs which carry me through the darkness.

No matter how cold, no matter how my teeth chatter and crack, the lyrics and musicianship found within these ten tracks fill my body and soul with such warm feelings to last me all winter; until Spring blossoms and they recede back into the earth, only to emerge next winter.

  1. Open, Rhye
  2. Dissolve Me, Alt J’s Summer Remix
  3. I’ll Try Anything Once, Julian Casablanca
  4. Sunset Coming On, Damon Albarn
  5. Nara, Alt J
  6. Untitled 4, Sigur Ros
  7. Low, Trace
  8. Winterbreak, Muna
  9. The Fox In The Snow,  Belle And Sebastian-
  10. Raouri, Souad Massi (Bonus! Tiny Desk Set)


What’s you season? When do you bloom?

“I rose to the window, unlatched the frozen pane and pushed it out. A sudden burst of birdsong blew through the cottage, so loud Shay withdrew from the dream realm and fell through the clouds.”

How Not To Write in Cafes: Confessions of an Antisocial.

Don’t do it.

For he love of all things Didion!

I mean, I get it, there is this undeniable sex appeal. This intrique: scattering your notes across that old bistro set, the heady demitasse begging for your lips: what’s the WiFi code? Nah, I write longhand.

I fall prey to this allure now and again. Loading my satchel with pencils, paper, notes, books. Stalking southbound traffic to my favorite watering hole. Order a Gibraltar, catch up with barista, discuss life. By the time I’m sitting down to write, like an hour later, my coffees cold and the cafe packed.

Cling-clang cutlery. Blah-blah-blah business meeting. “Well I just don’t know about Johnny Depp anymore, why is he so… extra” “Girl, that latte art though.” “Third quarter” shakes head “third quarter, down, down, down.” Steaming, always grinding. Cling-clang. Blah-blah-blah.

Meanwhile my fingernails are digging into the wood of my pencil and just before I think I am going to… SNAP! the pencil breaks. Crickets. Everyone stares. The business man, the gossip girls, the mustache twirling hipster, even the pour-over pauses in its drip, letting out a hesitant sh*******t!

And I scurry home, past the bookstore. Down 39th Street, by the old folk artists coop that may or may not double as a junk yard. Climb the two flights of stairs to my apartment, counting the first, wooden set stapled with AstroTurf, and the second wooden set awaiting carpet that may never come.

I brew up a fresh cup. Sit down. And that’s when it happens…

When

I

Write

It

Out

Never again, I tell myself. But next week, I’ll try once more…


I’m curious: what’s your writing habit? What fuels you’re creativity? Boosts you morale? What get’s you going? The more self aware, the more writerly I become, I find that solitude is key. Quiet. Voiceless and calm.

How I used to be a travel blogger is beyond me. The world kept closing in…

Spontaneous Combustion: #1 ($99 Dollars, Almost Free: Life Coach. Copywriter. Thief)

New Series. Composed of stream-of-consciousness writing and photoessays, thoughts on life, music, love and everything in between.


spontaneous combustion: #1

It’s your daily fix
Fresh ingredients.
Something new.
It’s not an ad.
It’s not for sale.
It’s not easy to digest.

I’m not here to pretend to be some guru or act like I know anymore than you do because, believe me, the older I get, the less I know.

Funny how that works when the world is running wild with “twenty-somethings” peddling Nirvana and life-coaching: really just give me $99 and I promise you’ll feel better. Go ahead, try it.

Try.

It.

You ready for this?

Continue reading “Spontaneous Combustion: #1 ($99 Dollars, Almost Free: Life Coach. Copywriter. Thief)”

Prologue to a Memoir: A Rough Draft, a Novel, a Working Confesson.

A strange thing happens when you begin to contemplate the end. It’s as if setting such a definitive goal opens the world to endless possibilities

A phone is buzzing

It’s occurred to me that with the end comes the potential of a new beginning.

There are many types of death. Just as there are many types of love in which the subject, or subjects simply depart from one existance to another. Trading this for that, and in exchange receiving a fresh beginning and a new life, a new identity.

We are flowers forever teetering from Spring to deep Winter.

Forever waiting for Summer. For Fall

Our chance to really live.

Only to rise and be struck down.

Spring. Winter. Awakening. Death.

Where is Summer?

Where is Fall?

This realization came so urgently, slapping me across the face, I shot right out of bed that morning. Before the sun herself could shine and make me straight again, before the day could cleanse my palate as it often does and, in the deadpan winter, shuffled across my frozen, miniature tundra in snow flurry Kansas City, and drained my savings account in exchange for a one-way ticket to Morocco.

That will show em, I thought. Still unsure of who them was. For some reason, whenever I looked outside my window, hoping to spot them, all I saw was the hollow reflection of myself…

A phone buzzed, gliding smoothly across the bistro table. I don’t recognize ringer until realizing it’s mine: I’ve never heard it ring.


It was a cold spring night.

The city still reeling from the previous year’s terror attacks and whispers of Al Qaeda carried through the streets like cautionary tales foretelling the bogeyman. Maybe that explained the police on every corner, their unwieldy machine guns and serious frowns. They had no effect on me. That’s not true: I found it absolutely intoxicating, that life or death appeal is what lured me here in the first place. 

“Nobody said it was supposed to be so cold in the desert.” I said, catching my scarf as it fluttered in the sharp wind. It only occurred to me then that I hadn’t checked a single forecast. 

Moona laughed, “That’s because this isn’t the desert.” She said, looking up at the snow covered mountains. “It is winter isn’t it?”

“Is it?” I cringed as another gust came down from the mountain, lifting table skirts and extinguishing candles.

The waiter returned with my drink just in time for us to leave. I paid, left a few coins tip, downed the drink, shay ma nana, tea with mint, and flagged down the first cab on the square. A big burly man, mustachioed and jolly.

“Where from? Where? Oh, Kansas City! I have cousin in Kansas City, maybe you know him? Welcome to Morocco, America. We love America. Welcome to Morocco!”

He shook my hand as we paid and crossed the street to the souk on the other side. The shops were being washed out, dirty water came surging over the cobbles. And the streets were being watered down, to keep the dust from rising when the tourists arrive.

“And that is how we do it in Morocco.”

“You know it… Do what?”

“He just ripped you a big one. Do you realize what you paid him. What, like twenty dollars.”

My heart sank with shame. OK, so I didn’t check the forecast. But what about the exchange rate? The currency? The mysteriously scrolled dirham papers, lined with calligraphy and stained in pinks and greens. I could count to one-hundred in Arabic by then, but what did that mean of money, of value. Not a thing.

I had just paid twenty dollars for a two block ride down the boulevard.

“Now,” Moona said with her big smug way, “you are in Morocco.”

2018 Reading Challenge: Reading Women Challenge

I’ve been smitten with @smdanler since, embarrassingly late in the game, encountered her interview on @litupshow. Just received my copy of #Sweetbitter -and just in time for the #readingwomenchallenge with @thereadingwomen.

Have you been called to any challenges this year? Resolutions? What are you working towards?

P.s. if you’re interested in the Reading Women Book Challenge, let’s start a book club. Maybe? Yes? No? 😉

Seasons Greetings: or,| Bookstagram | Vinyl | Coffee | Arabic, Bedouin Coffee | Alt J | Star Wars

These are a few of my favorite things.
Wishing everyone wellness and peace through the holidays!

What are you up to this week? New Years?
My material obsessions right now?
•Alt J • Poetry by @r.h.sin • Antique Bedouin Coffee Pots • Coffee via Portland • @originalfunko Luke Skywalker.

In My Heart of Hearts, I Will Always Love You. | An Open Love Letter, Deep in Memoir: The Boy Meets World, the Conflicted Future Self.

“My sudden love of these two women came into existance upon two separate planes of thought: like the inner improvisation of a jazz troupe, somehow merging into one cosmic dream.

Like a split in the multiverse that is the self.

Shay. Shay is stability. Comfort. Success.
Whereas Ingrid. Ingrid claims the part of me which belongs to the world. A manifestation of my desire to roam freely and simply be.

But, I know in my heart of hearts these two worlds can not coexist.

For they, separately, are everything. Yet together, in the folds of life, they cancel each other out.”

–In Another Country

Meet Nicholas: or, Hello There! | Crafting My Author Biography

Nick is a writer and activist. He has lived and worked in Jordan, Mexico, and the United States. He currently lives in Kansas City, Missouri and is working on his first novel.

Continue reading “Meet Nicholas: or, Hello There! | Crafting My Author Biography”

Books, Brew & Merry Christmas (or whatever you’re up to) be it naughty or nice.

What are you wrapping this year?

Books. Cold Brew. Star Wars Gadgets. Pokemon Cards. Friends. Family. Brother. They’re all on my list and for the first year in my collected twenty-eight Christmases, I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve completed my Christmas List!

Feeling rather mature about this.

Tell me, are you on the naughty list? The nice? Or that oft forgot, list’o’krampus?

Whatever you’re up to, know that you are loved and that everything, from the large swaths of snow covered trees to the dust bunnies collected under your sofa, is simply a figment of our collected imaginations 🤔💫

From the Rooftops of Granada — an excerpt from my manuscript for ‘The Outsider.’ A Confessional Memoir/Novel on Identity, Love, Travel and Revolution in the Arab Spring.

SCENE:
I landed in Andalusia, via Morocco, a few weeks/scenes before. In this text I’ve just met the Belgians Ingrid and Petra, We’ve been traveling together for a few days now and i’m beginning to feel a sort of tugging deep down, in my heart of hearts whenever she appears. Ingrid, that is. Of course, this feeling conflicts with my already strained, long-distance relationship (with Shay), yet I allow myself to be swept away by Ingrid’s presence. 

I remain unable to confront my own feelings. Therefore, before I say anything to Shay, before coming clean to Ingrid, I, selfishly, want to feel out my options.

The nights, dancing, tossing back jugs of Roja, the piles of Manchego, the furious foot stomping, hand clapping Flamenco, twirling through cavernous Gypsy grottoes and aimlessly, drunk on it all, wandering across the cobble stone markets. The old castle that was planted over the city have a millennia ago… this is all I’ve ever wanted. To be where I truly see excitement. To be where the world interests me and for the first time in my life I felt a purpose. 

And caught right there at the center of all that purpose nonsense were the two most extraordinary people I have ever met: Shay and Ingrid…


 From my working draft of The Outsider

     “I can hardly make out the old pointed steeple across the clay rooftops. A fog rolls in over the mountains and blanketing the village in that amber streetlight glow of Old World Europe. Church Bells pulsate through the clouds, as if echoing off canyon walls, a sort of wobbling, underwater sound. Even my own hands look strange in this light held before my face. The fog sweeps over the palm, through the fingers and the golden crown of Ingrid’s long curls. Blinking lights, something I can’t identify in the hazy distance, so foreign in this event –for haze so rich really is an event, isn’t it? Like a sunrise you never forget or the tail of a comet– glowing like dragons eyes… 

A sudden burst of red hits the rooftop as Ingrid’s glass falls to a shatter and wine washes over the Spanish tile where, beading at the edge of the terrace, it drips over the cobbles below.

“Shit.” Leaping up from the weathered futon, “–right back.”

When the coast is absolutely clear I dial the number.

“Hello?” It’s her. 

“Shay” My heart leaps, she’s answered!

How long has it been? A week, or two at least.

“Hi.” unhappy.

“Shay, how are you?” 

“Fine.”

Pause.

“I miss you.”

“Really? Because it seems to me that you’re having a great time on your own. In fact, I don’t know why you’ve called to begin–”

“–please don’t do this.”

“Do what? I’m doing nothing here. This is all you. If you want to go out and forget about me until it’s absolutely convenient then don’t even bother because I’m busy too y’now, i’m not sitting around, waiting for your call. This is all on you.”

“What are you talking about?” My voice cracks. Oh, how I revert to the desperate codependent puppy that I am. “I’m doing the best I can here. It’s not easy finding a phone, let alone a spare moment just when you’re available. The countless times I’ve called and gone straight to voicemail–”

“Words. Words, Nick. I want to see action. I need to feel you with me. To know you mean what you say. This is the first I know of these missed calls. You called this morning, well guess what, calling at 3 A.M doesn’t cut it.”

“Shay, please understand.”

“I do. You’re obviously onto bigger things and you should be. I’m not going to hold you back anymore. Don’t worry about me. Forget it. Go on and do you. It’s clearly what you want.”

“What I want? Would I be calling you from the other side of the world, busy and stressed and manic and missing you and in the middle of life, would I be calling you if this wasn’t what I wanted?”

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Be reasonable.”

“It’s never been so clear. You need to figure yourself out. Maybe someday that means us having something but now.” Shay pauses. “Now there’s just empty space.”

I can’t believe what she’s saying. A veil of darkness settles over my thoughts, muddling my vision. It’s all I can do not to crack this headset into the wall. To hurl my phone through the adjacent window across the chasms, stained glass raining over the alley below… but I hold tight. Oh, but to drain this bottle and hurl it through the window, wouldn’t that feel so good. I want to start a fire and watch something burn.

“Hello? Nick?”

I want to hang up. Give her a taste of what distance really feels like. But i’m still that codependent puppy in the throes of loneliness, hurling myself at the closest thing I know to be real.

Ingrid. On the stairs. She’s laughing and coming my way.

Shit.

“Nick? Hello?”

“You’re right. Maybe we’ve let too much air fill the space between “

Shay, hurt. “You really think that?”

Was she bluffing?

Now, agitated. “Isn’t that what you just said to me?” I let that sink in, feeling justified.

“Let’s talk about–”

“–how about I call you later. Let’s think about it. Email me. I have to go.”

“OK.”

I grab the bar as a wave of exhaustion crashes over. I need a drink.

“Hey Cowboy, how you holding up there?”

Ingrid’s cherry presence and brightness fills my cup once more. 

“I need a drink. Shall we?”

I mean, it’s not cheating if nothing happens. Oh, but emotions run deep. Which begs the question: What’s worse, an emotional or a physical affair?

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