“You’re late, Isaac.”
In my grandmother’s garden there was a stunted, knuckled tree near a ramshackle bomb shelter, a sheet of corrugated iron curved over a shallow hole.
It was no use trying to talk sense into Sylvia when she got like this.
“Why is everything so fucking dark lately? What happened to happily ever after?”
On Wednesday, I watched her steal a daylily from my garden.
By the time Mariel arrives at the water’s edge, the sun’s hanging low.
On the cusp of teenagehood, I was increasingly preoccupied with a search for the elusive Cool, and suspected that this exciting, slightly nauseating sensation in the pit of my stomach was it.