by Mark Richardson In the summer of 2019, I concluded the best way to kill myself was by jumping in front of a train. I didn’t want to be one of those people who attempted to end it all and failed, so approaches I deemed less likely of success were discarded. Ten years earlier, my […]
by Mark Richardson The Platonic Man cries whenever I cry. Tears will be streaming down my face and I’ll look up and he’ll be dabbing his eyes with a cloth napkin. “I know why you cry,” I say at the Cuban restaurant with the creaky ceiling fan. “I’m a good listener,” he answers, cryptically. It’s […]
by Mark Richardson She had no tattoos when she left him. Just white twenty-two-year-old skin. It wasn’t her skin, necessarily, that he thought about while at the gym or when eating at a Chinese restaurant or when pumping gas at the station off Santa Monica Blvd., where homeless men with brown paper bags offered to […]