That voice. Gravelly, loud, insistent. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” yelled over and over outside Mila’s building, six-thirty sharp, mornings and evenings.
Stu and I were the paramedics on call and the first to arrive at Rusty’s Saloon, where my Uncle Lou had died alone and upright in a booth at the back of the bar.
When he was six, his father held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him if he ever touched his LPs again.
Grown now and alone, Manion remembers his past as severed bits of planets revolving around his mother, the sun.
You will never get a kiss because you’re invisible, the mirror says, a glare of sun where my face should be.