I have a story in this called “His Name is Love,” based on the Stephen King story, “The Man Who Loved Flowers.”
Here is an excerpt.
I’ve been asked to dinner a lot. I reek of dead flowers. I like men, even after everything that’s happened. I mean I like women more, but I don’t see myself in that way. I want to take off my face, have a nap. I always want to nap. Sometimes I want to nap forever, lie curled up on a bed of petals and just go to sleep, dream that I’ve remembered my name. But that’s just guilt talking. Dusk isn’t a good time for any of us.
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