I gathered my beach towel and book to go up to her sixth floor apartment. I looked up to see her lean over the railing and throw my canvas suitcase over the edge.

I gathered my beach towel and book to go up to her sixth floor apartment. I looked up to see her lean over the railing and throw my canvas suitcase over the edge.
She is long lost in a black oblivion by now. Three years and seven months lost, as of today. And yet I can’t get her out of my mind.
Relationships in the seventies were like rugby scrimmages. We were all players and many players got muddied and some got bloodied.
This is my house. I call it a lowly bungalow. Sometimes I call it a hovel. But it’s my hovel.