by Jeff Friedman
My lover thought I was Paul Newman, which is probably why she became my lover. One night in bed, I told her the truth. “I’m not Paul Newman.” She started to laugh. “You’re a joker all right,” she said. “No, really! Paul Newman has blue eyes that are clear as skies. I’ve got dark beady brown eyes, Hungarian eyes. He has a square jaw, and I have a weak chin partially hidden by a scraggly beard. I’ve never made love to Liz Taylor or Dominique Sanda or Joanne Woodward, and I don’t drink two six packs in two months, let alone two hours.” “Well, she said, “your tomato sauce is pretty good.”
Jeff Friedman has published nine collections of poetry and prose, including The Marksman, Floating Tales, and most recently The House of Grana Padano (Pelekinesis, April 2022), cowritten with Meg Pokrass. He has received an NEA Literature Translation Fellowship and numerous other awards and prizes.
Emerge Literary Journal 