It’s 3 days into my first apartment and I’m lounging on my floor plotting a Manhattan takeover. Also, that week’s pedicure.
My phone’s on speaker and it crackles “Have you met Hud Morgan?” and I haven’t and I have no idea.
A beep.
“Already on the other line,” I warn the Verizon intruder.
“Kay,” a new crackle snaps back, “just wanted to say, I just met this guy? Hud Morgan? And you have to.”
A year later, Mr. Morgan and I whisper over pancakes and suddenly he stops. “You’re like my mini Bradshaw,” he grins, and I remind him, there’s no Pinky without The Brain.
[HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HUD - HOPE THE 4th FLOOR HAS REALLY GORGEOUS CAKE...]















