John Robinson sat at the kitchen table in front of the wood fireplace and wished he had a scotch. Oh, he could have one if he really wanted. He was staring at the bottle in its cardboard case, sitting at the top of the liquor cabinet. No one would say a single word to himContinue reading “Big John and Roberta”
Not a one of them had survived, although the word had been Mrs. Rockby had tossed herself down the cellar stairs before the disease could get her. Whether it had been from delirium or her own demented way of cheating The Blues, well, that depended on whose mouth the word was coming from.