short stories

the reading

I have told no one this story—not until this moment.

It was 1973. I was 22 years old, hitchhiking around the Mediterranean Sea, with no itinerary and no time constraints.

In Nice, France, three English musicians invited me to stay with them for a bit. With a place to stash my guitar and other stuff, I was free to walk the city streets, something I treasured more than visiting museums and historic battle sites.

On a slightly run-down street, I walked by a girl not older than seventeen but whose smile had the air of an old soul. Continue reading