As far as Henry could tell she never seemed to wonder what it all amounted to or who she was becoming. Her thing with Henry was part of it, too. She liked him. He was her type. She said this in a way that simultaneously turned Henry on and gave him the feeling that he’d cleared a very low bar.
His father’s apartment, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, Oriental rugs, and views of Central Park, filled Helen with longing. She had always imagined herself in New York. She had always wanted a claim to that city’s streets.
Perhaps it is the matter of going outwhich bothers me. That you or I
or someone we know will have to get up,wearing only the warmth of the memory
of our clothes, and find an airy socketin the car-fumed street. They say
it is possible, for those wh [...]
My father was never one to complain. On the morning of the day he died, an ulcer he’d suffered from for years, and left untreated, ruptured and began to bleed. Two days later I met with the town coroner. He told me the end had been painless, that, as his life leached away, my father would only have felt increasingly weak and light-headed. The coroner, trying to make me feel better, was lying.
On Friday evening Glebov Senior took a turn for the worse: The ache started in his chest, spreading to his shoulder and then into his back. The ambulance was sent for.
In the placid lean of an arid summer, in the lingering snarl of pit latrines, the sharp barbs of the acacia, in the opaque eyes of the girl whose fingers frenzy
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