She could barely make him out. He—she was certain the figure was a he—was a fleck, a disturbance on the horizon, and—this was another certainty—he was coming her way.
That voice. Gravelly, loud, insistent. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” yelled over and over outside Mila’s building, six-thirty sharp, mornings and evenings.
The women in the Hearthstone Mall bathroom are not unlike horses at the gate, competing in a race they don’t understand, didn’t sign up for, won’t admit exists.
They woke in the night, in their childhood homes, with a strange, mawkish hunger, a sprain in the chest, a clench of the gut, a small, dull-toothed animal stirring.
Sometimes, I’ll put down the window as I drive to the shops and force as much wind into me as I can, until it burns my nose and puffs out my cheeks like I have a mouthful of marbles.