When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. It is the bottom of the cup, where all the dregs appear to settle. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. Sebastian administered bitter tonics to her, fluids she could not taste with her swollen tongue. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. Prudence shook her head. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees.
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