Bathurst Streetcar, three pints out the door of Cloak and Dagger

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, wearing skinny jeans, a cargo green parka and red and purple striped scarf wrapped tight up to her cheekbones. Her hair is brown with thick blonde streaks, piled into an impossibly effortless and beautiful bun. She reads the book around the pole she hugs.

Two or Three Things I Know for Sure, Dorothy Allison (Plume/Penguin)

Page 29:

Mama always loved the pictures of her mama and the twins, grandsons who towered over Mattie Lee. In one snapshot they were braced elbow to elbow, each cradling a newborn baby girl, and in their outside arms, held as tenderly as the infants, rifles extending up into the sky.

The way her grandmother told it was hard to follow. It was impossible, really, what she was saying. Auntie, the woman who raised her grandmother, had become pregnant with the ranch hand's child long after the family had determined that Auntie would not be able to conceive. (Uncle Simon surely had nothing to do with that.) One day, Auntie collapsed in the fields, the ranch hand by her side, young and lean holding her aging face in his lap. He ran his fist raw against his cheek collecting the evidence of his fear. He sat in the rows, head between his knees, while the family officiated over the death of an ignored child. Driving out of the cemetery, Auntie had lost control of the vehicle, hitting the gas and sending the family through the window of a local storefront.