Greener Pastures (42)
Part 42 of 52
This writer is not Luthor. The night Three-Balls died, that Luthor wasn’t who I am today.
Lived long enough, life is nothing if not revision.
The writer of this, me, handcuffed to my destiny in a bed so twin-sized, I whisper to this monster’s big toe, to the nail of his big toe, “You hungry?” Sleeping head-to-feet …