Keen eyes read the top row, staring straight ahead until the words unfocus. G, then something, then D . . . If only that middle letter were in focus! On this eye chart, every focal point is a vanishing point. Desire dilates pupils. We can’t keep the world in focus.
Better than therapy is the spectacle of rejection in the deep. I am no longer Abandoned Wife. I am free citizen of Planet Spectacular whose mate followed a whim not based in my failing or his but in a primal scent. Never mind, husband. I am now in love with cuttlefish,
At eight years old, I dodged the sisters’ eyes: I ate my lunch, then donned a saintly face, walked out the gate, past church and up the rise toward Horn’s Variety, that mythic place. The path was new to me. I walked alone
Reader, they are dirty. You’ve come so far so harshly: bloody miles through silt and brambles, noxious bogs and mud-fields, dunes of char beneath the sun-spill—all of it in sandals. Take my chair; this dry, blond Scotch on ice