She was as square as an equilateral triangle, yeah, but she made my heart pound like a fat man at a food truck. Hard. I was sitting at my desk. July. Muggy. Depressed. She walked in wearing nothing but a camel colored leotard held up by a silver choker. I told her straight away.            

“Honey, we’re closed. If you want justice for John Dear you’ll have to cross the street and see Jimmy. But if you do that, finding Johnny’s killer will presently become the least of your worries.”

Bending over, she whispered in my ear.

“Thank you for the information,” then turned around and walked out of my life for good, a totemic chemtrail of crevice custard boiling out of her behind like a paralyzed eel.

Things got bad for me after that. Yeah, real bad. I went on a three week crying jag with no relief in sight except my nightly cup of ginger tea. Steeped for 10 minutes. Luke warm but spicy. Yeah, real spicy. With just a squeeeeze of lemon. Meyer. Handpicked from the market. Farmers. I got better, yeahhh, a little better. But not before Father Time stepped in and said,

“Hey Kid, you get yourself a little sobriety, a little Buddhism, you’ll be all right.”