Tears of the Platonic Man

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 […]

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Tattoo Woman

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 […]

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