117
TEARS IN MY ALGABEER
everything I had for years now, bleeding all over my music and laying it out on the altar. And all I had to show was washout.
* * * *
The trike needed a little work, so I worked on it. Algie had a car, a stolid little non-smart machine from a Puerto Rican plant, but I was obviously going to need to get around independently.
I let myself be seen around on the three-wheeler. I wasn’t going to tell anyone Emmie had left me. It was too painful, too embar-rassing, too everything that was rotten about it. Gossip could do the telling.
That night in bed I lay in a cage of arms, pressed back against comforting huskiness. Algie was about half again my mass, which was fine with me.
“I’m gonna need to figure what to do,” I said.
The arms tensed, subtly.
“I’ll have to
