It was like the mourning period had officially ended and he was making up for lost time or something. It was early on a Friday morning in October, and I was having coffee on my back porch with Essien. Both of us were early risers, and he’d gotten into the habit of walking from his back door to mine, and by the time he’d open the screen door, I’d have a cup of French roast to pass him. Then we would stand in my kitchen and wait to see the walk of shame from my guesthouse. “Oh-oh, who do we have here?” “That’s—wait, wait,” Essien stopped me. “Don’t tell me. It’s the lady from the witch place my daughter likes.” “Wick and Wand,” I offered. And sure enough, there was Sophia D’Amato, walking very quickly across my grass, shoes in hand. “I guess Wiccans have needs too,” I yelled after her. “Screw you, Hutch,” she yelled as she walked by my screened-in back porch. It was odd to see Mike doing so much serial screwing. He’d gone from seeing nobody to seeing everyone in a few short months.
