by Carleton Whaley Tim Mossholder Mr. C — Was and is alone. Has been for as long as Mr. C — can remember. Sure, there are faces that have woken next to his, but when they leave there is only the smell of Meyer lemons and bleach. What dust they leave behind is quickly excoriated, swept up and forgotten in the bin. Mr. C — is not a man for excess or sentiment. His clothes, his floors, his counters, all gleam white specifically to show any spot, that it might be erased. A single