A summer night in Rome feels strangely vacant. After the last of the taxis and weaving mopeds careen into oblivion, a breeze ripples through the dry air…
We are on the roof: Jonathan, Leo, and I. Or rather, I am on the roof, and they are on the ladder. Twelve years old is too young to be on the roof, I tell them, especially such a roof.
The scar was like someone had been in a hurry to get a scoop of ice cream out of the container, like those high school kids who worked behind the counter at Graeter’s on a busy August afternoon…
Loehmann’s fitting room was unusually crowded. No matter where I stood in this large mirrored space, once a discount designer paradise, reflections of female flesh surrounded me.