Howling Mad Review, 2020
She knew it was him from the scrape-tap-tapping of his cowboy heels on the lino floor in the bruised-blue kitchen at the front of her packed-up apartment five flights high in a converted cotton warehouse across from the park where the king of the jazzed-up junkies played a broken ukulele with bandaged fingers and black stump teeth; she wondered if he remembered her name, and she was waiting.