When I return to the room, she is in bed. I slip under my ivory quilt and switch off the light. My stomach growls for food. In order to avoid the Russian, I spent the entire evening across the street at a friend’s place.
The guy's left leg kind of wiggling while he scratched. Didn't seem like a nervous wiggle or a wiggle because of pain, just a wiggle, just something the guy did.
She hummed the third movement, walking down the road. Her shoes were a mess, but she was dancing.
Sitting in the chair of spilling foam and gentle, gentle leather.
It is not for me to explain how a person turns into an object, a thing; it happens
Bare feet hang like question marks; nowhere to go, no purpose.
A complete stranger had recently made an unwanted entrance into his mother’s life...
“I warned you not to let yourself get pregnant,” Mary Louise Atkins said as she wedged her stout frame behind the furred steering wheel of her Subaru. “God never meant for an Atkins man to be a daddy."
I stretched and sighed. I ached to escape. The walls were tense.
She is near me now, the Mayor’s Wife. It is her hair I smell - fresh flowers and fruits. She is as silent as the snow that holds us, packs us in.