Mr. Frank and I got together one more time.
I let him carry the conversation.
Right off the bat: there will be no Mr. WWW or Mrs. Frank.
All the alarm bells went off, and thank heaven I am old enough and have learned enough to hang garlic around my neck and cross my fingers and mutter my internal witchly incantations.
To recite the whys would be extraordinarily boring.
You want to hear?
The women in his life just wanted his money.
Even the love (lust?) of his life, a much younger flight attendant, wanted him to buy her stuff. (What stuff, pray tell? Stuff that doesn't last like flowers and woman-stuff)
He's very bored, plays the stock market every day, tries to fill his nights with something, anything. Wouldn't mind tagging along for something, anything, as long as we shared costs. He's learned his lesson, you see. Be still my trembling heart.
Life was more interesting when there was sex involved but now there's precious little life left in Mr. Little Frank. Which pithily tells us everything we
I nearly fell asleep.
He truly harshes my mellow.