Studies show: memory is OJ from a can. Reconstituted from concentrate, to be exact.
It was as if we had been looking at our living room through bleach-colored glasses that hid the scuff marks on the walls, bumps from moving furniture around, a space behind the couch where I had etched my initials with the grime from my boots on a day I had been binge watching American Top 40 upside-down.
The magazines kept coming every week or every month, so it was one or another of them every day, and you didn’t have what we both knew it was going to take to make them stop.
The voices were faint, indistinct, like a quiet murmur that played inside her head. Once, when Marilyn told her father what she heard, he told her not to worry. The ancestors were watching over her, he said. She was the fortunate one.
Her former husband was a good man, and she had screwed up the marriage.
You see, I have put George there entering an apartment building in the posh 16th arrondissement, and all I’m thinking about is his cock.
I was the woman and he was the man, I was Asian and he was white, I was just another local girl and he was the dashing coveted foreigner. . . .