First of all, dont believe what youve heard about me. Given the stories circulating, you would think I was some kind of retrograde chauvinist but unless Im suffering from amnesia or have been in a psychotic state for the past month, I know Ive done nothing to warrant the current fuss. My lapses, such as they are, proceed from what might best be described as passionate excess.
Cara looked out the office window at the black wrought iron fence surrounding the cemetery. A female cardinal with red-brown wings perched there, head tilted up as if she were waiting for someone. Cara was 19 years old and trying not to feel bored. Her job had some uneventful interludes, but she had learned to love it for the moments in between the boredom.
On the shoulder of a two-lane road through the woods, there was a bar that had once been a garage. After the mechanics left it, for a few years in the seventies, it was just the stripped hulk of a building. A junk crew took down the chrome trim and sold it for smelting.
She arrives at my apartment more than forty-five minutes late, flushed and out of breath. She offers no explanation, nor do I ask for oneI never doand I wonder if that bothers her. I make a move to kiss her and she offers me her cheek.
Pam played two games in her head while she was at the Outer Banks with her grandparents. The first was that she was a beautiful and amazing teenager. The second was that she had a prolonged and fatal illness.