His name was Webster, and he hadn’t known he was Haitian until he was eighteen. He had been adopted by a family in California as an infant, a couple who believed they couldn’t conceive, until they did, and did again. But he was family; his mother had felt the same maternal pangs towards him as she did his sisters, almost guttural in their depth.
You want to tell Livshitz that deflowering has nothing to do with feathers. Not as far as you know. “But what do you know?” Livshitz’s hands would ask you and his mouth would immediately respond, “I know, I know.” In any case, Livshitz isn’t listening to you. His moustache is in heat. It’s foaming spittle.
Monday is coming to an end in Melbourne. Alajuela is in ciesta. Granada is having dinner. Beirut is getting drunk. Buda and Pest are tucked in for the night. But many are on the internet at the same time. It is Tuesday morning in the gated Mayberry Estates brick house community of Rutherford, Ohio where Billy Hicks sits at attention,…
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