As he walked out the front door he didn’t even bother to look back, but instead of feeling relieved or even victorious about his leave-taking, he on...y felt sad. It was almost as if he had failed them.Saddened by the memory, he gazed out the hospital window, oblivious to the December sunshine. He figured they were all better off without contact. He was a failure in his father’s eyes – not that he cared about that at all, it was the other part of the equation that continued to bother him. Not. What an international trio they are: reflecting the cosmopolitan nature of Lynn's adopted home of Manhattan. Tomasz from Poland, Paul from Alabama and Lynn from Peckham, a London suburb that seems bizarrely exotic set against the yellow taxis and steaming subways of the insomniac city.The passage leads naturally to one of Lynn's own compositions, but not one to which she is courageous enough to add lyrics. She knows she is no wordsmith, but she relishes the opportunity to scat over her own. Five years before, his wife had died, killed in a car wreck. Her death left himself and his now 18 year old daughter, Chelsea. Chelsea was the raven haired, blue eyed young woman with breasts to die for, coming in at D cup standing in front him now. They, in turn, had developed a strong bond in the years since.He had greatly loved his wife, who he had gotten pregnant with Chelsea when they were only 18 themselves. Her death was hard on both of them. Of course, he also loved sex. He spared no. ’ ‘Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.’ Benjamin stood next to Patrick and put the juice on the counter beside them. ‘Keep stirring so that the vegetables don’t burn. The onions will turn translucent when they are ready. The mushrooms will brown a bit and turn soft.’ Patrick turned away from Benjamin to face the pan. He stirred its contents. Benjamin rested his right hand on the far side of Patrick’s waist. ‘That’s perfect.’ Patrick coughed some in surprise. He sipped from Benjamin’s cup without.
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