Kathleen Tessaro

A proximity that mimicked intimacy.

Like a hand reaching out across the impossible distance to pierce the veil that separated them

the delicate shades of a summer’s sky.

Love was an art, a game teased out and manipulated by skilled players.

listening to the ticking clock, the dull hum of the refrigerator

Pretty girls didn’t lead independent lives; didn’t Eva d’Orsey know that? Their triumphs were measured in the swiftness with which they moved from one pair of waiting arms to another. It was the less fortunate girls – the ‘sensible’ and ‘clever’ ones – who had to face the world on their own.

The clock ticked; here the city felt removed.

They liked cheap-looking girls that laughed too easily, too loud.

it’s only a gamble if you don’t know what you’re doing

‘And what if there are no answers?’

She held her ground. ‘Then at least I will have asked the questions.’