"How could you," she asked.
And just for a second, I wondered if she was going to hit me, standing there in the dark so close I could smell her hair and perfume again.
"How could you write something like that for someone and not tell them about it."
How I wish I could get back there. cause now I feel I talk too damn much.
The author of My Shorts
- Russell
- A human life, I think, should be well rooted in some area of native land where it may get the love of tender kinship from the earth, for the labors men go forth to, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that early home a familiar unmistakable difference amidst the future widening of knowledge. - George Eliot
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