by Ann Lewis Hamilton
He looks like Brad Pitt. When they walk into a restaurant she can feel people watching them – wow, how did she get so lucky? – she’s sure that’s what they’re thinking. He opens the door for her, has excellent table manners, laughs at her jokes, he smells good. He doesn’t fart or belch or talk during the news like her ex did – the farting, belching, motormouth asshole. The sex is incredible. He is hopelessly boring, their relationship is shallow and empty and dull, but I’ll deal with that tomorrow she tells herself as he opens the door and they step into another restaurant.
Ann Lewis Hamilton lives in Los Angeles where everything smells like smoke.