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But who believes her. A girl that big, a girl who comes in with her pretty face all beaten and black can’t be falling off the stairs. He never hits me hard.
Things had a way of disappearing in the garden, as if the garden itself ate them, or, as if with its old-man memory, it put them away and forgot them.
I read somewhere in India there are priests who can will their heart to stop beating. I wanted to will my blood to stop, my heart to quit its pumping. I wanted to be dead, to turn into the rain, my eyes melt into the ground like two black snails.
I waited for such a long time. I waited by the red clowns, just like you said, but you never came, you never came for me.
She has her husband and her house now, her pillowcases and her plates. She says she is in love, but I think she did it to escape.
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