"One beetle. My first. Shiny and black. It shimmied down my windpipe, tiny legs like a staccato earthquake. My insides clenched. Growled. Tremored, creating tiny water rings through my digestive fluids."
"Driving those rutted back lanes along the coast you would find places I swear did not exist until we got out of the truck, the wind blowing over the dunes, cows wandering the beach, shitting and lowing, and we would walk the tideline, bladderwrack and oyster shell..."
"I live a two-dimensional life, and yet I have mass. I can feel the weight of the bricks and mortar at my back that hold me upright, the smoothness of the plaster that makes up the sky all around me and the ground at my feet."
"Mom’s unemployment ran out and her boyfriend found her a job at a local factory installing the flashing lights on emergency vehicles. On her first shift she nicked a portable one and placed it on our coffee table."
"That woman had better not come closer. Margo doesn’t want to hear or watch that whole non-private conversation. For crying out loud. Can’t she afford earphones?"
"The cancer wasn’t where it was supposed to be. It had grown wild and unweeded. But still there was hope. That’s what everyone was always saying. Hope was in the air. She couldn’t smell it."
"I was brushing my teeth before work, and the fly was buzzing about my head much the way my cat buzzes about the sink when I brush my teeth before bed."
"The lice fall onto Samantha’s lap in music class. Engorged on the blood they have sucked from her scalp, they wriggle on her blue plaid uniform skirt. She squishes one between her right thumb and index finger."