the little twirler over the lip of Pat, my first lover. He was Native-American and had trouble growing any kind of facial hair. I should say up front Mama was not my mother, nor anyone’s really, though he acted like a mother to all of us, the destitute, the disgruntled, the disenfranchised. We’d come to the city, some of the younger ones from broken homes beyond the Palisades, some of the older ones having lost a partner to the scourge or from mere wanderlust, and a few, very few, simply looking for a new playing field. Mama’s reputation was legend. Once he took a shine to you, he’d be there for mral support forever. That funny little mustache always supplied a spot of humor, except when it didn’t—when it reminded you of one you’d dearly loved and lost.
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