T. Coraghessan Boyle Reads “The End Is Only a Beginning”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
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Carolyn's Journey to Western New York
Western New York wasn't Paris, which was why he liked it. He took his wife out to the only restaurant deserving of the name for fifty miles around. Carolyn had a martini, but she barely took a sip of it. She didn't do much more than push it around the plate with the tines of her fork. A lot of of of himself made an appearance, dispensing small talk in his soothing busts of profondille.
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