
Matthew Klam Reads “The Other Party”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
I Love You, Terry
Terry's shoulders were rounded and his arms were bulky. His hair smelled a little fruity. I reminded him to yell day or night if he needed me, but then Ruth said, oh, at the sight of a gash on his elbow and blood running down. He didn't flinch at my declaration of love, just held the railing.
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