SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

The Perfect Date

The beaming sun stretched its smile, enveloping the lake. A comforting breeze swept ripples across the surface dancing to the beat of a full symphony of lilting melodic wonders playing the soundtrack for love in the band shell. Swans sang an operatic aria floating in aimless harmony.

I even saw a butterfly go by. Add in a basket full of wine, bread and cheese and it was the perfect setting for romance. Neal left no stone unturned to create a beautiful first date.

He was attentive. He was kind. He was generous. It was everything I could have asked for and more than I expected from a date on harmoniousencounters.com.

I went into online dating with a lot of skepticism. This site asked every question except my blood type and promised to use their groundbreaking algorithm to find my perfect match. Well, it worked.

Neal and I had everything possible in common from the choice of wine and type of music to books, politics… and on and on. We talked for hours about every manner of topic from travel and wines to architectural styles and classical music preferences. He was a simply perfect match. Yet I sit in this perfectly wonderful setting with this charming man across from me and all I can think of is… “Meh?”

It was pleasant, but I was not attracted to him in the slightest – not at all. I don’t understand it. He was smart, good-looking and funny, but that spark, the joie de vivre, just wasn’t there.

I dreaded the end-of-date kiss like the plague. Everyone puts so much emphasis on the fireworks of the first kiss. But if there are no embers the entire day, the pressing of lips together can’t create a fire. They’re not flint. Unfortunately, I was right. It was like kissing a friend or relative; it was just pressing lips, nothing more.

That night as I cozied into a cup of hot tea and my romance novel du jour, I started to think I expect too much from a first date or any dates. In all these novels I read, its instant chemistry. They either hate each other or love each other at first site, then sparks fly. Of course, it’s fiction, but after a lifetime of reading books and watching sappy movies, I think I’m programmed to believe in love at first site and happy endings.

Maybe the perfect person is the wrong fit. Opposites attract, right? Maybe you need someone who’s your exact opposite and makes your blood boil to get your gears running. Neal was too perfect. Instead of Prince Charming, maybe I’m more of a dashing rogue girl. Where do you find them? Is there an unharmonious.com?

Well, for right now, I know where to find them – right in the pages of this book. But first, I need to cut the cord. Even if my happy ending isn’t easy, it will never happen on a computer. harmoniousencounters.com—delete account.

Time Capsule

It was the last day of high school in the year 1971 in a small Midwestern town. Four best friends secretly buried time capsules under the tree in front of the high school to commemorate their time there and vowed to meet fifty years later to dig it up.

All agreed to put three items each in individual tin coffee cans; something that represented what they did in high school, what they wanted to be and how they saw themselves at the time.

Over the 50 years, the four eventually went their separate ways. At first, they saw each other occasionally, then less frequently. They called on birthdays and sent letters and cards at Christmas. And when social media came out, they shared pictures and milestones on that. But life took them in different directions, so they were never again the best of friends.

Margie was the first to leave. She went to college in California, lived in a commune for a while. Then she became a public defender and was elected as a democrat to Congress. She never married; she always said she didn’t want someone else trying to run her life.

Evie, who’s now called Evelyn, stayed in town for a while and went to work as a teller in the bank. She fell in love with the head banker who rose up the ranks to in JP Morgan Chase and moved to New York to head up their corporate division. So basically, she’s rich.

Fran married her high school sweetheart and lived in town for 20 years. It was a bad situation. Her husband mentally and physically abused her and cheated on her all the time. She kept having children, seven in all to keep things happy, but it didn’t. Everyone in town knew; it’s a small town. She finally withdrew and became a shut-in from the embarrassment. He died of a heart attack at 40. It was very sudden. Most people thought it was a suspicious death, but nothing was done. She got married to an insurance salesman moved away to start a new life with the kids. It was better for her to leave; too many bad memories and too much gossip.

I stayed in town the whole time. I worked in my father’s grocery store for a while and avoided marriage and kids for the longest time. Finally, I met my husband, George. He was the guy who brought the bread every day. It was a long courtship where he pursued me for years and after we got married and had kids, he helped me run the store.

Fifty years to the day, we all met in the high school courtyard. The tree was huge, but the campus was basically the same. The reunion was nice. We all looked older, of course, but at least we all made it. I had my grandson dig up the tins for us. Let’s face it, none of us wanted to dig in the dirt anymore.

After the hugs and introductory greetings, we walked up the tree and all stared down at the tins. No one moved.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Margie said and grabbed her can, scraped off the dirt and ripped open the tin lid. She pulled out a program from the school play where she played the lead, her young republicans Nixon pin and her hand painted flower child peace headband.

“Check out the Nixon pin. Wow, you came a long way baby,” Evie laughed.

“This is ridiculous. I never voted for Nixon! I’m a liberal.” She flamed and threw down the can.

With the tension broken, Evie smiled as she took out her old band baton cap and cheerleader bow, but grimaced when she saw her 4H farm medal for raising chickens.

“You can take the girl out of the farm, huh Evie?” Margie laughed and Evie pouted and quickly put the tin down.

“This is not mine. Who put this in here? Funny joke.” Evie took a wipe from her purse and cleaned her hands with a puckered look on her face.

I opened mine and laughed out loud. There were photographs of the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben and the Pyramids and a picture of myself with a camera, all inside a grocery bag from the store. Yes, I wanted to travel and photograph the world.

“Well at least the grocery store bag was right. I knew I’d never leave anyway.” I shrugged and put the pictures back in the can.

Everyone looked at Fran as she put her hand in and retrieved pictures of her and Bert, her first husband, with a card that said “Fran and Bert Forever” and began to cry.

“I was so stupid to give my life up for that jerk!” Fran covered her face and let the pictures and coffee can fall to the ground.

Time is funny. We took separate roads and left behind who we were then and what we thought about life, when it didn’t turn out as we planned. Some out of necessity, some from convenience and some just changing life as it went along. They always say looking back in a mirror, objects are closer than they appear. Our time capsule experiment seemed to show the opposite. Seems the past is buried deep and far behind. Maybe that’s where it should stay.

I am an Island

Author note: I wrote this for a challenge to finish another writer’s prose. It took an interesting turn for me to give a look into the mind of the everyday writer.

“The descending sun painted the sky in an amber glow. Soft white clouds danced to a gentle breeze’s beat. The ascending moon tossed a quiet light over the plains, that separated the wilds of nature from what passes for civilization. The birds bid farewell in a rhythmic chorus. The lovers smiled at each other, in peaceful content. Twigs crumble under pained stress. Footsteps draw closer, stilling their thoughts, and chilling the night…”

“Rascal, lay down, I’m in the zone.” I scratched his ears and he sat on his pillow at my feet.

After reading this passage describing a scene of isolation on my half-blank computer screen, I realized something. This is my island; my oasis of calm in an ever-changing sea of still glass or turbulent crescent waves. No matter what’s happening in the world outside my very small window, I can escape into a sphere of reality which I create.

In my little office, my writing takes me on a journey where I listen to the characters in my head and they tell me their stories.

Yes, I hear them. I know that sounds weird to non-writers, but as a writer, you become the observer in the world you create. With every word on your glowing screen, you weave tales and build a universe where people live, love, learn, thrive and survive. And you hope someday readers will share that world with you and enjoy their stay.

It’s a strange omnipotent power to create a fake reality. You wield fate like a god and hold the lives of your characters in your hands. With a sentence or paragraph, I can give this one true love, put that one in danger or even kill someone off. I think that’s the toughest part. I feel like a parent to these fictional children I formed.

Sometimes I feel responsible for them, although I often think they’re in charge of their own destinies and I’m just the one with computer chronicling it all. But even as witness, I’m servant to the divined natural science of our story world. Not unlike real life, there are rules in the tropes that must adhere. Certain stories must have a happy ending and in some, death is assured. I travel through their existence, sensing everything as they do. I guess just like the civilization I see outside my window, my island also experiences both calm and rough seas. Maybe my little island isn’t that different, but at least here, I’m still in control.

Ok, I’ve procrastinated long enough…I’m listening lovers, whose footsteps are chilling you in the night? I’m in the zone again. I hear the footsteps too.

“Again Rascal? Ok, let’s go potty.” I walked toward the door and took one more look at my screen.

Lovers, you’ll have to wait a little longer to find your stalker.

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The Question

Looking through the glass window, Cathy paced on the floor, sat down and tapped her pencil on the table waiting. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“This is taking forever,” she complained, got up and looked through the window again.

“What are they waiting for – divine inspiration,” she barked and sat down again, tapping her pencil. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Impatient, she got up and looked at the window again. “You’d think I asked them solve the meaning of life. Even a Rubik’s cube would take less time.” She yelled and sat down again, tapping. Tap tap tap.

“Cathy, here’s some decaf, give them a moment, this can be a difficult question to answer,” Rick said calmly handing her a cup.

The warm coffee helped for a minute. Cathy swirled it around in her mouth, trying to identify the flavor du jour. Since her ad agency only offered focus group participants coffee and donuts, both had to be pretty good. They gave a variety of sugar-topped cake donuts, cream and jelli-filled frosted selections and the most popular glazed donuts in town. And a gourmet coffee house in the area provided a different unique blend of coffee every day.

“Sometimes I think they take so long just so they can suck up the coffee and donuts,” she barked again and began pacing. “After all, they have nowhere to go.”

Cathy was anxious; this account has been a difficult challenge. As a 30-year-old marketing assistant, she couldn’t get her head into the fifty-five-plus brain to figure out how to sell to them. She successfully marketed everything from sneakers and cell phone cases to beer and perfume to her age group and was bucking for a promotion to marketing manager, if she could come up with a good campaign to sell to this target market.

“What do they want? Don’t they know what they want?” She said sitting down and tapping her pencil again. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Here you go,” Jean said opening the door and handed Cathy a stack of surveys.

“Finally, let’s get some answers,” Cathy handed some of the papers to Rick and excitedly sifted through them.

With each paper, she anticipated more and more and was satisfied less and less.

“Where did we find these people – asleep in a nursing home?” She tossed the papers across the table. “Grandchildren! More free time! Reading! Playing Mahjong all day? This was a useless waste of time.”

“Now, wait, there are some good ones here,” Rick console her. “Here’s one that says more money.”

“That just says they can buy, but it doesn’t tell us how to sell them ultra-caffeinated energy drinks!” Cathy objected. “All we asked them was the best thing about getting old is________? How hard is that?”

Their client sold caffeinated energy drinks to a younger market and wanted to expand into the senior market by only changing the packaging, branding and advertising, but leaving the drink the same.

“If you ask me, I think our biggest problem is the warning labels,” Rick added. “After you remove diabetics, heart and cancer patients, and people with varicose veins, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and gout, there’s not a lot of people this age level in the buying pool. We don’t want to kill anyone.”

“Some of these people have to be active,” Cathy said feverishly looking through the papers again.

“I know, Rick said. “What about this for a slogan…Drink Caffi energy drinks…you’re not dead yet!”

NEW RELEASE: The Sailor and the Songbird

Just released the first in A Timeless American Historical Romance series, The Sailor and the Songbird. The Timeless series of American historical romance novels follows members of the McIntyre family who find love amid the backdrop of pivotal times in American history.

Pin up woman vintage. Beautiful girl pinup style portrait in retro dress and makeup, manicure nails hands, red lipstick and polka dot dress, surprised face

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The songbird, Suzy arrived in New York City in January 1944 with starry-eyed hopes and dreams for stardom. That all changed when she locked glances from her USO stage with Red.

War is hell. Heartbreaking separation is worse. Follow Red and Suzy and their experiences in 1940’s wartime with Red battling at sea in the Pacific aboard the aircraft carrier USS Franklin and Suzy’s rise to singing stardom in the USO . From meet-cute to their touching sweet romance is lovingly conveyed with every feeling and thought through their letters to each other and Suzy’s letters to home. Can heart-warming true love triumph over the tragedy of war to give these soul mates the forever life they long for together?

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The Hum

A friend came over for dinner and we watched what I call a scary movie. I’m not a fan, but she liked it, so I went along. After it was over, I was less scared and more confused at the unbelievable actions of the characters. I mean, if you’re scared, you run away, not investigate and go toward danger. Who does that?

My friend left and I was cleaning up the remnants of our impromptu fondue platter. It was not my finest cooking hour. Then I heard a strange dull humming sound. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. Like maybe the refrigerator running? I didn’t think much of it and just continued my clean up duties.

When I took everything into the kitchen, I was puzzled. I couldn’t hear the hum anymore and there was the refrigerator right there.

Looking at the piles of mess in the kitchen, I decided to finish the bottle of wine and watch a little TV. The old Dick Van Dyke Show was on and it was my favorite episode, the one with the walnut aliens. That show was a laugh riot with a funny take on aliens. Why do aliens portrayed in media always take on a weird vibe and shape?

Oh well, the wine spent for the evening, but I still wasn’t tired. So I decided to read a little. There it was again. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. But this time it was a little louder and sounded like an engine. I thought maybe a motorcycle was passing and looked out the window. There were no lights, but I did see some bugs buzzing around the window. That’s it, bugs, I thought.

I continued to read, but the sound kept getting more intense. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. It almost had a rhythmic cadence. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. It seemed mechanical, but the sound kept getting louder and softer, louder and softer. Maybe it was the TV? I hoped.

I don’t mind admitting, I was a little freaked out now. I needed a distraction, so I decided to do the dishes. I turned up the water and clinked the dishes and glasses as loud as I could to drowned out the sound, but I couldn’t quell the moaning noise in my head. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm.

I went back into the living room and heard the sounds of rain. I scolded myself for my silliness. I let that stupid movie get into my head. I was imagining things everywhere.

So, I sat down to read again, but after a minute or so, it started again. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. It was louder now, haunting. And I could swear I heard breathing too. I focused on the noise. It was under the couch – right under me. It sounded like a cat purring. But I didn’t have a cat.

Maybe something got in when my friend left. Could be a cat or even a bobcat? I heard sightings of some recently in the area.

I shirked back to the corner of the couch huddled in pillows. I was afraid. No, I was petrified. It was taunting me. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. It was getting louder.

I wanted to run, but I was trapped-paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t move. It was getting faster, egging me on, tempting me to look. I didn’t want to look, but I had to.

Ok. Think, be smart. I needed a plan. I’d drop my book and the loud noise will coax it out. Good. Ok now drop it, I told myself. But then I hesitated, do I really want to know? I was fighting with myself back and forth in my mind. Yes, I had to know. I couldn’t stay on the couch cowering forever. It would not rule my life. Then, the humming was softer. Hummmm. Hummm. Humm. It was telling me I should look.

1-2-3, I dropped it and quickly retreated to the top of the couch. Nothing happened. Curious. Now I really had to know. I dropped the remote. Nothing-just the Hummmm. Hummm. Humm.

This is getting ridiculous. I can’t go on like this. Now I was mad. I needed a new plan. A proactive approach. Defense. I took a few of the pillows on my lap and quickly shoved them under the couch for a barrier. Still nothing.

I saw my phone next to me and stuck my phone down under the couch to take a picture between the pillows and see what was there. There was a glow-like two shining eyes.

OK, I was dealing with a wild animal or something. They always say when dealing with an animal, you need to seem confident. They smell fear. So I yelled aloud Get out! Get out! to inform it of my presence. Still nothing.

Now I had to act. I armored up by wrapping myself in the afghans on the couch, grabbed the metal art piece on the side table and the lamp next to the couch, removing the shade. With one swift move, I told myself, I needed to poke at it and then I could hit it with the heavy art. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was a plan. It had to work.

With catlike agility, I jumped from the couch to the floor screeching like a warrior and stabbed underneath the couch to and fro. Nothing.

So I sliced with the lamp like a sword sweeping it under the couch and heard a swirl and a thud. I got it. I darted my eyes toward the wall and saw my offender. I couldn’t believe it. There it was creepily grinning at me from ear to ear with blue eyes and a big red nose. How could I be so stupid? I shook my head and picked it up. It was a clown doll my niece left the last time I babysat. The batteries were running out. That was the Hummmm. Hummm. Humm.

I plopped back on the couch laughing at the fuss I made. I guess I’m one of the idiots from the It movie I watched earlier. I went toward the danger. But I know one thing for sure. Yes, I definitely hate clowns.

Mad About Mars

I just can’t believe we’re going to Mars. Aren’t you excited? We’ve been watching the coverage of this ever since the first shuttle brought tourists 10 years ago. Of course, we, that’s my husband Marty and me, waited to make sure it was safe…and when we could get a reasonable Groupon rate. No, we aren’t the first people to do anything. We just got our first microchip phone, the IOS 2000 and the 2124’s just came out.

“Passengers, please clasp your harnesses and put on your oxygen inhalers, as we are descending into the Mars atmosphere,” the shuttle pilot said.

This is so exciting. I just got this inhaler. Its designer Fauci – well, it really says Fuci, but who notices. Ya gotta breathe, right? I got it in the back of a van in New Jersey. It has faux leopard vinyl skin. That’s the second best kind, since real faux leopard skin is nearly extinct.

Where are you staying? We looked at all the resorts, but we decided to stay in New Vegas. They have a really fun package there – tours, gaming and concerts. It’s the green-man group’s tenth farewell tour. We’re staying at the NANASA resort. We wanted to stay in the Mars Rover building, but it is down for repairs. We are staying at the Curiosity building. At least we’ll get to go on the Mars Rover roller coaster inside the resort. People say it breaks down a lot, but I don’t believe that.

I’m looking forward to the Mad about Mars tour the most. Two days of really digging into the history and colonization of Mars. It shows how happy the Maritain people were to have their planet turned into the biggest planetary resort in the galaxy. They are so much better off now. I mean, they all have jobs as servers, maids and hover drivers now. We really made a difference in their lives.

“Madge, come on, we’ll miss the front seats on the tour hover,” Marty said.

It was nice talking to you; we start our tour right away. Have a good time.

“Thank you for visiting Mars. Our Mad about Mars tour starts with the beginnings of ancient Mars and brings you right up through the first contact with Elon Musk and the colonization of the people through the Space Force initiative and building of the largest luxury resort playground for humans with Trumptopia,” the tour guide turned into the gates of a sandy area.

“This is where first contact took place and where the great Elon Musk and the tribal Martian leader J’onn XX shook fingers for the first time. Before SpaceEx and Space Force took control of the planet, the Martians lived in caves like this one.”

Marty, look at this cave, it’s so primitive. Stand next to that Martian, I’ll take your picture like you’re entering the cave with Sir Elon exploring. Marty, make believe you’re giving him the sign of peace.

“And here we have some ancient Martian hieroglyphs. We think they are a pictorial representation of that first meeting. Since the native language is now extinct, no one can translate it, but it’s great to have the historical record. Let’s move onto the first groundbreaking of the Space Force Trump landing area, which is now the largest fast food court in the world,” the tour guide said.

Hey Marty, take my picture with the ancient carvings. I wonder what they say. Google, translate this picture from Martian to English.

“Ok, according to the twentieth edition of the Mars English dictionary, the translation says Eat at Martian Joes,” the computer voice said. Oh that reminds me, I wonder if they have that green Martian milkshake I’ve heard about. I have a coupon for that. Let’s go.

Falling

There it was watching me haunting me. That 4 foot by 4 foot cavern in the stage floor daunted me with every pirouette and every chace. In my head, I knew the orchestra pit was stationary but it seemed to follow me all over… upstage, downstage, stage right, stage left like a shadow taunting my every move.

When I joined the DuSable Dance Company in Chicago 3 months ago I was thrilled. While I danced for years, this was my first professional dance company. That’s where I met him. The Danseur. He was tall, muscular and just gorgeous. With every step, he moved with the grace of a swan gliding across the boards as if aloft. I have to admit in my daydream state, my eyes see him dancing as if perched on a floating cloud.

My first few performances in the dance afforded me the vantage of watching him from my upstage ensemble view. As if on autopilot, my feet danced, but my eyes couldn’t leave him. I breathlessly gazed his every step and each adagio. A few times, I nearly summoned the bravery to talk to him. But every time, my voice left me. I couldn’t utter a word.

Then the prima ballerina broke her ankle and they ask me to go on for her. I couldn’t believe it. I get to dance with him in the Pas de Deux, the dance for two. My head was so high in the clouds it could have hit a rainbow. I will be in his arms. We will dance as one. Then we’ll look into each other’s eyes and he’ll fall hopelessly in love with me. I was locked in my own fantasy. It was like falling through a trapdoor.

First lift. I am in heaven soaring with gilded wings. All I can see is him. 2nd lift. Perfection. All I see is his eyes. I am drowning in their blue pools. 3rd lift. He’s starting to swoon. We’ll be engaged by the curtain call. And now for my final big Grande Jeté leap…aaaaaiiiiiieeeee. I was so lost in the rapture I created, I fell right into my nemesis, the orchestra pit trap door. A broken leg and arm will give me plenty of time to replay every one of those moments in slow motion. A cautionary tale. Don’t fall in a lovetrap on stage or you could fall into the trap door, literally. When your head is in the clouds, you can’t see where your feet are.

Deception at the Copa

My name is Rico Bonacucci. And yes, that’s my real name. I know, do you like my diamond? Those scumsucking nurses didn’t want to let me keep it on in here, but I told them what for.

I am not a man of many words, but I wanted to set the story straight before I die. That’s where you come in doll face. Write down everything I say.

It happened many years ago, when I used to have a club in New York called the Copacabana. It was a great club. Music, dancing, a mirrored ball, a great bar and showgirls…yeah real showgirls who showed their kiester and everything. Nothing dirty, mind you, just the backside. You see more on the beach these days.

But I digress… I loved that club. That’s until they walked into it – Lola and Tony. Ah Lola, what a looker. She could put a smile on that American Gothic farmer guy with one shake of her yellow tail feather. She was something else. I usually never mix business with pleasure, mind you, but she turned my head around and around. Yeah, we went out, so what? I was really into her and it was mutual.

That’s until that rat punk Tony came into the picture. Che palle! He was a lowlife scum from the gutter, but he looked good and the women seemed to like him. So, I gives him a chance behind the bar. I didn’t expect him to last long. He couldn’t even make a decent drink if all he had to do was pour it from the bottle into a glass. He’d even screw that up. But he kept the broads coming back and drinking. I made money, he made money, everybody’s happy.

I even looked the other way when he started getting’ chummy with Lola. They would laugh a little, yeah, I thought they were friends. So what? Figurati! I knew she was my woman and that’s that. Really, were affianced. I gave her a ring and everything. I would’ve done anything for that dame.

One day I overhead them talking. They didn’t see me because I was in the secret room behind the two-way bar mirror. It was there since prohibition for gambling. We use it as an office now. I run a clean establishment. Anyways, I was counting the dough from my numbers racket and I heard them talking about cuts. Then he gave her some money and she kissed him. Yeah, the kiss hurt my feelings, but the money, that made me really mad. No one steals from Rico Bonacucci.

So I put a tail on that pretty-boy Tony. Can you believe he was working for the Russo gang? He was the grandkid of Russo himself. He got a job at the Copa to spy on me and report back to his Nonno so he could muscle in on my business. That scumsucking dirtbag.

Now, again, I run a clean and successful operation. No gang owns Rico Bonacucci. That’s why they wanted to take it over. And that little stronzoa, he was not only shorting the till, and kissing my woman, but he was paying Lola to tell him where I was, so they could take me out. Well, they had another thing coming. I heard their whole plan. Basta! Enough.

That Friday night, Lola was doing her show and I was in the front row, as usual. She always comes and sits on my lap after the show to give me some sugar. I always thought she wanted to mark her territory in front of the other girls. Cause, ya know, I’m a catch. Now usually I’m not packing. I’m a lover, not a fighter. But since they were planning to rub me out, I gotta be prepared. When she hugged me, she felt the gun, screamed and jumped up.

Then that stronzoa Tony comes sliding over the bar and points a gun at me. Well, yeah. I took him out. You don’t point a gun at a Bonacucci unless you got a date with St. Peter. Ya know what I mean? Fongool to both of them.

That was that. But when the cops showed up, Lola and the girls made up this story about how I was inappropriate with Lola and her boyfriend Tony tried to defend her and then I shot him in cold blood. They even hid his gun. I mean, please, I do not have to try with the ladies. I am a love magnet. But they were all out to get me.

So, here I am doing 30 in the cooler for nothin’. Now I’m about to kick and I wanted my besmeared name cleansed. I am innocent.

Hah, but I got a little revenge. I hear Lola still sits at the Copa every night crying in her cocktail. And she got old, wrinkly and ugly. Hah! She’s got nothing. Niente!

I guess we all lost that night, though. Him, his life; me, my freedom, and she lost her mind. Now I can meet St. Peter with a clear conscience. Arrivederci, toots, you make sure to have that printed tomorrow under my obituary. A full page in the New York Times.

Author’s Note: This story was an exercise to retell a popular song. This is a different way to look at the Copacabana 70’s song.