What We Talk About When We Talk About Michael Westen
You are only a handful of dress shirts, but you are a different man each time you wear them. Walk, accent, tie or no tie. It’s only when you’re stripped bare that I recognize you at all. These days, you’re naked less and less often until I have forgotten all but entirely what you look like.
Florida heat has scorched our brains in a way mint and rum cannot fix. We drink anyways. My CIA contact says I should let the ghost of you go, but yogurt won’t ransom my heart back from Brennen.
Ours is not a solution of bullets or gasoline. We cannot be fixed with a quick wit or a fast car, a doctored cell phone and a stockpile of C4. You’re lying low with fake papers in hand; even if I could catch up to you, I can’t say I’m sorry in any language you might speak. Call your mother. Maybe she knows what to do.