I let out a low growl when I see June’s stockinged legs. Hungrily, my finger traces the pencil-thin seam from the heel of her impossibly high red stiletto, up along her shapely calf, past the contours of her perfect thigh . . .
His hand rests on her shoulder. ‘Today’s our anniversary, darling. Can you believe it?’ She stares in the mirror, sees wrinkles, liverspots, lips once full now thin. Twists her diamond wedding ring . . .
Back of his shack, the little boy hunkers down among whippy green cornstalks. An apple cupcake sits in his hand. A hell-hot wind gusts above him, shaking the cobs like rattler's tails. He opens his mouth wide . . .
I hadn’t thought about Spike for years, not until my Croatian wife suddenly disappeared. Valentina had left a note that explained nothing: simply that she had made a dreadful mistake. I called a friend in the Met, asked him if he could find out where she was . . .