The scent of rose water drifted through the screen door. Glory, at fourteen the youngest of the Wilson clan, hovered, sheltered behind the wire mesh. The preacher straightened like a dog on point, staring at the girl.
The man in the white jacket slides into a booth next to the wall, peers at the laminated paper menu. The woman takes her time, sliding her purse into the booth first, setting half of her butt onto the seat, rotating slightly, sliding the rest of her body into the booth. Her nails are shiny and red, the tips rounded artificially with lacquer. Her face is unpowdered and her eyebrows are drawn on thickly with black pencil.
By Rhiannon D’Averc Featured in The Weekly Knob Nov 16 · The ingredients were simple. A whole stick of butter, to be consumed as you wished. Some women…… Read more “Seven Sticks”