I knew where he lived. The information was in his case file. I dug through my bag and there it was: Javier Johnson. 2242 Leewood Ave. S.E. Atlanta.
I called in sick and decided to go looking. And why not? I was his lawyer, after all. And I was pissed. Did he really think he could get away with stealing from me?… Read the rest
He arrives from Texas on the Greyhound, so young, so pretty he often can’t buy a drink. He clerks downtown and on weekends takes the subway to distant stations all over the city. He rides the Cyclone at Coney Island and stands by the rail of the Staten Island Ferry, watching Manhattan light up at dusk.… Read the rest
She dumps cashews into the machine, watching them fall onto the onions and cilantro. Some nuts sink into the mixture of lemon juice and water that sits on the bottom. She adds pepper, twisting the top of the machine’s container, hearing the crunching of the corns. She takes the lid off the pink salt. Sprinkling.
She turns the knob, hearing the instrument’s loud zoom, watching the contents swim and float and eventually get caught up in the mixture.… Read the rest
After her husband Henry died, Gladys lived alone. She kept the same house in the same way, full of food and free of dust. She stuck an insulin needle into her stomach every day at 4:00. The basement stairs gave her trouble, but Henry helped every so often, when he was feeling up to it. She made his favorite every Friday–smoked sausages with barbecue sauce and sauerkraut.… Read the rest