Bald Reginald

By Bruce Costello

Later, we hung out in the lounge bar, telling lies, slurping red wine. After a while, I skipped outside for fresh air.

Reginald was leaning on the railing, staring over London, puffing his meerschaum pipe.

Reginald, who’d sat through the conference like a stone, hated us squawking female romance writers, shrill with success.

Reginald remembers how it used to feel to have emotions. Like a man who’s lost his sense of taste may dimly recall the taste of raw garlic.

He writes about love.

Reginald is an archaeologist digging his own mind, exploring his past, and churning out blockbusters nobody reads.