Irldale put on some Paul McCartney records I’d never heard before. Something old. 1970s-era from the sound of it. “I’m listening to a lot of music lately,” Mr. Irldale said. “I always thought: I should really listen to a lot more music. Finally doing it. Like everything put out by the Beatles after they went their separate ways. I finished Lennon and Harrison, now it’s McCartney. Not sure if I’m going to tackle Ringo.” “Your kids?” I asked. “With their mother and… Africa. Kenya. For a month.” “I’ve never been to Africa,” I said. “Who has? All that land and none of us have seen it.” Mr. Irldale adjusted his chair and reclined almost flat. Beside him, a fist-sized rock sat upon on a tall stack of newspapers that were yellowing at the bottom and edges, like a slow burn he could put his hand into at any time. The sun cooked us and I let it, rather than ask for sunscreen. We talked about Africa and tea. We talked about artificial sweeteners and watering restrictions.
What do You think about Being Eloise (An Erotic Romance Collection, Books 1-3)?
