Pari knocks at our door on a cloudy evening. She’s paler and she has bags under her eyes. I also notice the tremor in her hands. I know part of what she’s been through, but we haven’t seen each other in years.
I’m worried about her, and I’m even more worried about what she has to say.
She has something to ask, actually. She says she’s in a bad position, a really bad position, and she needs my help again.
She tells me her story, from the last moment we saw each other in that Arts District loft, up until now.
And then she asks if, even though she knows it’s asking a lot, I would be willing to give her my hospitality again.
Oh, Pari, I wish I could.
But we can’t have you here anymore.
The Stewarts Family (and other shenanigans) 