Rebecca Tsaros Dickson: 1 book

Out of nowhere, three weeks ago, I picked up the phone to the sound of his soft, dewy inflection drawing out my name. My knees buckled, inflaming the itch at the back of my neck. He didn’t have to identify himself. I knew. This man’s hands encircled my hips like so many chains of love. Then he cleared his throat and said the thing: “I have AIDS.”