Amish kids are eating sandwiches that taste better than mine, wrapped in wax paper and pulled from metal lunch pails they carried on to the Amtrak. They don’t have luggage, just the sandwiches on thick slices of bread, adorned with slabs of meat and cheese that smell curiously clean.
There’s a man reading Blood Meridian while knitting a consistent pearl stitch that would have my grandmother’s envy. He’s got hypnotic fingers, crazy magician’s hands with long digits and a broad palm. Air hands in palmistry. The man works either oblivious to my attention or uninterested in it, and I don’t care so long as …
Sending chapter after chapter to my younger sibling, who has an evil advice giving style that essential amounts to either, “send me another chapter” or “I’m bored.” Since neither is complimentary and one is fist-slam bad, I’m left perpetually chasing the damn dangling carrot. Good call, Rachael. In another month I’ll either be basking in …