My Last Morning With Melissa
Ah, Melissa. That’s a name that brings back fond memories of a time of passion and illicit romance. Even now, I can taste the hint of cinnamon on her lips and sense the subtle fragrance of an obscure flower that was the essence of the perfume she wore. Melissa and her husband, a stoic and foolish man whose unpronounceable name I have chosen to forget, lived in the same apartment complex as I. Even so, she might never have come to my attention if not for the fact that we did our laundry at the...