this morning #931.

this morning, before i could do anything else, i went right to the room on the back of our house, a room that used to be his office. lit a candle in his honor. placed it on the mantel next to his desk. sat & said a short prayer from the chair where he once sat & typed up his “dirty stories.” they were sleazy but they were easy money. nobody even knew it was him behind the filth. it got us this home & he made sure that, after he passed, the money still came in. “dirty money,” he’d joke. “our dirty secret,” he’d say. “dirty. dirty. filthy dirty,” i’d reply. we’d laugh & laugh & laugh to pass the time. sip champagne like rich folk. hold each other tight from the comfort of the couch. make out like it was our last kiss.