A small collection of very short stories about the coming of fall. Some sweet, some erotic, and some whimsical, each vignette will make you taste the cool wind, smell the apple cider, and long for a warm fire with someone you love.
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Copyright © 2017 by Guy New York
Published by QNY
Cover design by Guy New York
Interior design by Pronoun
Distribution by Pronoun
Autumn is Coming on Friday
Autumn Isn’t Coming
Autumn is Brief
Next to Her on the Couch
Color of Leaves
The Color of Pumpkin
A Cold Family Morning
Rain and Coffee
Autumn’s Cunt is Crimson
Kenji Miyazawa and a Tight Sweater
Hands and Fingers on the High Line
It’s My Favorite Season
When Autumn Leaves
New York In Fall
I Know It’s Fall
Her Or The Sea
Nowhere to go
Beginnings and Ends
More by Guy New York
Autumn is coming on Friday.
She’s been gone for a year, but when I close my eyes I can still smell her on my fingers.
The glass she always uses still tastes like her wine, and there’s a mark on my windowsill from her brown leather boot.
“I might stay this time,” she said in a text message. I laughed, but I couldn’t resist the surge of hope in my chest when I contemplated the thought. I couldn’t resist the desire and want for more than her body. I wanted brunches and walks. I wanted enough of her time that we had to contemplate what we might do with an afternoon.
She texted me again later that night, “Have we ever fucked on the chair by your window?”
I laughed even louder this time, but I shook my head and brought myself back to the world. We’ve had sex on that chair exactly three times and each one stands out in my memory like a crisp fall morning. I can taste her hair and remember what she was wearing. I can see her knees on the armrest as I thrust into her from behind, and I can feel the wood on my back as she hovers above me, teasing me for hours.
“I don’t know,” I finally write back. “Maybe we should try it.”
I sat down next to Rhyming Jenny. Drunk. Tired. Cold.
“Autumn isn’t coming this year,” I told her over my glass. I had been drinking Manhattans with a splash of something smoky. They were good and they warmed me up, but I had lost count a couple drinks ago.
“Of course she is. She always comes for at least a night or two. That girl would climb a goddamn mountain to fuck you, even if she does leave the next morning to climb another one to fuck some other drunk writer.”
“Have you ever tried lying?” I asked her. She was deathly honest, and there was no way around it. She says she was cursed when she was young. I think it’s just a survival mechanism, but I don’t say that out loud.
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