She could barely make him out. He—she was certain the figure was a he—was a fleck, a disturbance on the horizon, and—this was another certainty—he was coming her way.
In the center of town was a square, and in the center of the square was a huge green lawn, and in the center of the lawn was a booth.
It’s a Sunday night tradition:
-I go and buy the cheapest bottle of red wine from California at the liquor store.
Onscreen, the pug pulls away just as Mrs. Hernandez in 7C calls to complain about an awful noise coming from the roof.
They woke in the night, in their childhood homes, with a strange, mawkish hunger, a sprain in the chest, a clench of the gut, a small, dull-toothed animal stirring.
Ken Krasner in a nutshell: He peers at me, bug-eyed, over the pages of his Newsweek and announces, “I have to go be a priest in Russia.”