Nine-oh-eight Glenview Road was the best part of carrying the mail. Ten blocks into my suburban trek, there she’d be, stretched out on a neon towel, sweet and slick as a glazed
Invisible boundaries. The gum lines of aggressive brushers. Chins, if you’re a Hapsburg. The stamped fingerprints of once white shoes. Synthetic beards on aging tires, eroding like rootless rubber hillsides.
Waseem Akbar was a friend of my father’s and my uncles – It was the only thing I knew about him. Naturally, the news of his death did not affect me. The burial was in the night.
Through the open window above the tub, an outcry reaches us from the world. I sink my battleship, but it pops right back up to the surface. More shouts follow.
“Seventy hours,” said the man across the table from Peter Crown. Peter had invited him in for tea on an impulse that didn’t feel like his own. He didn’t even remember hearing a knock at the door.