I was sitting at a table under a tent, on a street called Piotrkowska, in a city called Łódź, in a place called Poland, drinking a beer called Żywiec. It was spring. There was still a bit of a nip in the air, but the ladies couldn’t wait any longer to remove their fur coats and knit caps. Some had already spray-tanned. They were ready to be done with winter, having lived with it for seven months a year, all their lives. I was kind of hoping Kate might happen by. She didn’t.
Guess who did?
Go ahead, guess.
He Who Happened By.
I hadn’t seen him since last summer at the swim up bar in Puerto Vallarta. A sordid affair, that — and one I couldn’t soon forget. Now here he was again, interrupting my book as he turned a chair around backwards, straddling…
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