The House on the Corner
Like his mother, Emile Oliphant has always collected men. His mother called them her lovers. Emile calls them his life.
— Meet now?
— Do you have a place?
— No. Any ideas? I’m open.
— Bloubergstrand. The parking lot there?
— Give me twenty minutes. I’m in a blue Opel.
— White Golf.
They met at the crepuscular beachfront. The stranger’s hand fell on his shoulder, and the frisson drew a gasp from Emile.
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