“He wouldn’t have taken it normally, but there was a girl at Lincoln’s shoulder, a fiber science major who kept touching his button-down to inspect the weave, and he couldn’t tell afterwards whether she’d only kissed him because it was 100% cotton.”
“I sometimes wonder, would you be able to reconstruct some image of me through the objects I’ve left behind? Would you know what I looked like? Smelled like? How I acted in public and in private?”
The tattoo artist on the corner of Davies Street says “Please.” “Please let me write something on your body.” After a while, the needle doesn’t even hurt, he promises, your skin just sort of goes numb. I look up at … Read More
“Not long after that we realized there was little else to do where we were, so we stood up and headed out, us two boys stumbling through the cold night behind Mary.”
Until the February of his eleventh year, Joseph Cohen felt an inordinate kind of sympathy for all earthly things he encountered, even—and in some moods, especially—for inanimate objects.
Martha Levinson lived with her two small dogs in a Victorian house, high on a hill in the Berkshires. She was long-divorced from her ex-husband and had two grown children, Claire and Philip, who lived in New York and Los Angeles. In her old age her almond eyes had become watery and caked with eyeliner, and she had resigned her chestnut hair to an eternally frizzy nest.
