Canon by Lynn Pattison
Nicole’s doctor says she has a portion of intestine that’s twisted in over itself, a knot that needs fixing. No inkling of what he’ll find.
Nicole’s doctor says she has a portion of intestine that’s twisted in over itself, a knot that needs fixing. No inkling of what he’ll find.
They are pencil drawings mostly – seven or eight of them hanging on the wall above Helen’s bed. Some are intricate, drawn with a care that must have required several sittings.
The pickup bounces with the weight of our bodies, radio bass buzzing along the rusted metal bed where we stand and shake against each other, their knees against our thighs, their hard denim crotches at our bubblegum, cheerleader backsides.
Mary eats only bread on a Monday. It’s one of those eat your way to a 6-inch-waist remedies she saw in a magazine.
Sian sits at a table in the cafeteria studying the snapshot of him. Byrne as he was. He himself is absent but the image is right here: