There was a priest at the door. He was young and jubilant. His hair was close-cut to his head, which struck Roman as odd because most of the priests he’d seen in his life had no hair at all. He hadn’t realized young guys still did this. It seemed old-fashioned, a dying breed. 

She is Fingers. Actual fingers. Bending at the knuckle to grasp a penny on the concrete; lifting back up.

Jimmy grabs his shit like it’s an evacuation and stuffs it in the nearest bag. Shirt, boxers, socks, Gravity’s Rainbow, toothbrush, and small body spray, the brand that brings in the ladies in waves, wet and ready for action, or so the relentless commercials during Sportscenter claim.

In late October, I plant the bulbs, excavating dirt with my trowel. Soil, my mom corrects me, not dirt.

Tell me a story, Pap.