I was sitting on my concrete walkway, pulling weeds from what you could have called a garden, intermittently looking over at Shelly's house—checking for signs of life.
What power, what excitement, to sweep down Broadway in the sticky summer heat, the crowd parting for her, her long skirt billowing out like a sail.
I want to escape my sober thoughts and become undone under foreign skies.
His feet are large. His hair is hard.
He’s a child, all of thirteen with an incipient moustache and the greasy face of adolescence. I concentrate on his deed, but I can’t threaten him. He spits at my window as I roll it up.
I want a girl who’s dying.
Now they had religion. It was time to buy a house.
Character development is an elastic exercise. It is also a moral one.
We finally know how our mothers felt when we were the ones in uniform.
Soldiers were for war, not airports.