By Joshua Ryan
Pictures from the next morning: Dean’s smooth, heavy body filling my bed. My head jerking up as memories hit me from the night before. My feet stumbling over the clothes I’d strewn on the carpet. Wine glasses lying dead in front of the couch. My hands fumbling with the coffee maker, anxious to fix the obligatory brew and get this stranger out of my home. Dean striding into the kitchen — white tank top, black boxers, bare feet, and the shadow of a beard. “Make mine scrambled.”
Apparently he’d leave when he wanted to leave.
“I think,” he said, taking his final bite of the eggs, “you should use your own name. No pen names this time.”
“Do you mind telling me what you’re talking about?”
“I’m talking about the name you’ll use in prison. Steven Meres. That’s good enough.”
