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I live in a one-bedroom apartment at the end of the 2/5, near Brooklyn College, on the outskirts of a neighborhood full of grand Victorian homes. Because I live within a certain radius of the college, I am considered a community member and allowed, for a small fee, an ID. I like to wander the campus, a project of the Works Progress Administration. I check out books from the
Breakfast did not taste normal, so I went to Gilcren, questioning.He cracked me on the face and said there were ants in the cereal, which was of course my fault. I had, years ago, dislearned, which made me always to blame for trouble of this kind. I have an idea how this will sound, but events do map a life. Smarting from Gilcren’s hand, I came again to the single fact:
They get to the class, Alice parking the car, the tires pressing up against piles of slushy, dirt-stained snow. Icicles are hanging from the swim building, looking threatening. Alice hates the winter. She thinks it’s morbid. She goes around to the rear passenger door of the car and opens it. There’s always a small part of her that wants to linger outside a moment longer.
I’ve solved the problemwith his Pork Chops Foyot.That you can do chicken,you just have to slice the filletsthrough first. Then dust themwith flour and brown themin butter. I watch my handsuse the tools he left me,the lemon juicer I gave him,and the white casserole dishwith the pale blue rim so old and soFrench. A million tiny cracksin the glaze. I slice the onions thinon his