By Brad Rose
I sleep with the secret policeman’s wife. Thursdays. Her soft skin, her violet eyes, an exquisite crime. I don’t think she much likes me, but she hates him more. ‘Momento mori’ means remember that you have to die. I am a peaceful man, but I have a weakness for beauty, for hazard. In a tousled bed, she whispers her preferred Bible passage (Matthew 7:12), “So whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also unto them, for this is the Law and the Prophets,” I feel guilty as I kiss her, think, Thank God my wife is dead.