Caucasian woman, late 20s, with wet blonde hair, wearing a black quilt-patterned jacket and grey dress pants tucked into black leather boots, adjusting her step slightly, side to side, something about her right foot.
A Certain Chemistry, Mil Millington (McArthur and Co.)
Page 3:
This was the last book I’d ghosted. It was for a guy, Justin Lee-Harris, who’d sailed a small yacht between Ireland and New Zealand. I forget why. Lee-Harris was always doing this kind of thing. I’d only met him once because, by the time everything was agreed and I’d been brought in, he was just about to jump aboard another one-man yacht to do something admirable and vague in the South China Sea. It wasn’t until after he’d gone that I discovered my Dictaphone battery had run out about halfway through our single meeting. Everything after Cape Town I just made up.
Walking home the night before she'd felt a tug on her jeans, her cuff under foot riding between the sole of her shoe and the wet pavement. At home, she peeled the jeans inside out and tossed them in the hamper, random bits of grunge and sidewalk spilling onto her basement shag. This morning, in the glare of magnifying mirror she tweezed a spear of spat out sunflower shell collected somewhere outside the markets of Spadina Avenue.
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