Greg Anderson
Stories (5/0)
Tie Lines
I can still see you. Standing at the rail. It requires no effort at all. The wind whipped at you. Your hair, already tousled from our morning. Swept this way. Then that. By currents of air that swarmed the boat. As it hustled its river. When your eyes would demand reprieve, you would run a hand through. Or tuck a particularly pesky strand behind an ear. Such a simple gesture. But one that made me weak. In my bones. Each time I saw you do it.
By Greg Anderson5 years ago in Filthy
Noodling
At a table. All dark wood, sanded smooth, finish shiny. I would sit. Whiling away a morning. Or afternoon. Or both. In the days before you arrived. Why not? The beer was cold. And plentiful. The noodles were some of the best in the city. The staff accommodating. Quick to learn your preferences. That kind of place.
By Greg Anderson5 years ago in Wander