Risa

I, captive of the Hollywood endings and a dire romantic despite hard core evidence to the contrary displayed with reckless abandon from my friends and acquaintances, write romantic literary pieces — the romance novel. I cannot, with any kind of conscience, delve into the lives of two people and refrain from their inevitable match.

But life’s greatest pleasure for me, stolen from the bits and pieces of hours in a single day, rests in the ability of my eyes to simply watch the languid movements of my husband’s chest after a productive day in the heartbeats moments before sleep.

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