Murder pulled her into the show room, his
fingers lightly on her wrist, her pulse, like they were kids, and she felt the
rush of old friends recognizing her. Rhoda swallowed. Clenched and closed—she
didn’t like her heart feeling like this. All closed up in a green fear vice.
Heart is like sex. Sex is like voice. From the throat—is it clear? Unblocked?
Unstruck sound? Unstuck. Is it blue and open? Pouring out? Faint or full? But
when Murder saw Rochelle was still setting up, he pulled Rhoda down into the basement.
“Come on, man, I don’t want to go into
that asbestos place.”
“No it’s ok now,” he assured her on their
way down, “they’ve spray-painted it gold.”
Somehow, they always ended up in the
basement. Hazy, she was happy to be floating alone in this crowd that knew her,
connecting with smiles and too loud for small talk. They would want her to
describe where she’d been. It couldn’t be done that way.
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