The Stranger Across the Aisle - V

For a single year I'd write as if I would never be allowed to write again. It would be an exercise in pouring the heart out.

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For years I’ve had this notion of going into one of those rotating restaurants that spins around a city in an hour. I’d bring along a pad of yellow paper and a reliable, flowing pen, the kind that’s easy on your hand. I’d wait my turn on the leather reception banquette, and I’d follow the hostess and move past the drifting waiter stat…