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Show Motherlunge a novel 169 The window-a real one, not metaphorical-was open; I looked out through the dirty screen onto the street. The light was draining as the sun dropped behind the roofs across the street. A small breeze brought in the smell of the ocean. A couple walked with bare arms around each other, hands tucked into each other's waistbands. They were probably headed for the rock club down the street, where the beer and the fast, loud music and their complementary good looks were going to fill them with what is termed a sense of youthful possibility. "Can I tell you what I'm at work on?" Dorothy started to laugh, her voice carbonated with self-affection. "But to tell you the truth, I hardly know where to begin." "Me neither." I waved down at Pavia, who had now appeared on the street below carrying two shoulder bags (laptop, breast pump) and a string-handled shopping bag. She was marching forward with a brave-seeming gait, her head up and eyes fixed, no doubt, on our lighted window as her hand brushed against the top of the fence, counting, counting. For her I waved my arm higher, in a wider arc, perhaps wildly, here we are, as Dorothy's voice spilled on and on. |