A knock on the door at six in the morning sounds like a gunshot. The knuckles are too heavy to be a former lover. I roll onto my flank and retch out a weekend of doting ministrations. My head throbs and I tape my ankles for the practice of banana tree destruction.
I give up halfway through and go back to bed.
I awaken to a note slipped under my pillow. Four syllables, and an infinity of meanings. I'm equal parts confused, and worried.
11:28 p.m. - 2016-02-21
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