Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Bloor Line, heading home from the holidays.

Hispanic girl, mid teens, rifling through shopping bags, holding mother's purse while she fixes her bun, flipping through the book, stopping to ask, "Are you sure this is the one she doesn't have?"

Mister Sandman, Barbara Gowdy (HarperCollins)

About page 130:

In his tiny, cabbage-smelling kitchen she watched him kneel before a roly-poly, pus-coloured dog with an ugly bat face and a bunch of tits drooping to the floor. "Yah, yah," he cooed, and the dog, who a minute earlier had been yapping furiously and attempting to bite the bobbing yoyos that were its own eyes, now sat still and silent while Ziggy first wet both hands in a bowl of warm salted water and then carefully lifted the right eyeball up into its socket, tucking in, as he went, the purple elastic band that Marcy presumed was the nerve.

Teetering at the top of the stairwell, on the last step of the wooden ladder, her torso stretched into the dank humidity of boxed sweaters and old photos, she felt serene weightlessness followed by sudden gravity, her chin clipped, her leg snapping, the jagged femur awake, as stunned as her.

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