On the eve of the anniversary we came down from the mountain-house. The taxi driver who took us back to the city had a tattoo on his wrist, it read: “1975.”
“Maybe, if there were more of us in the city insisting on just the small things in life, and we had a space to exist, he wouldn’t have to die.”
I rang the bell and was ushered to his home office. There were skulls and bones of deceased writers lining the bookshelves, each marked with an identifying plaque. Barbara Kingsolver. Tony Hillerman. Nasdijj.
Their husbands’ rigid fists became hands glib with plant soil, and instead of bruises down their thighs, they saw hickies planted like booby-traps along their collarbones.
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