Marta
I found mine in the mailbox on the edge of my lawn. The mail carrier hadn’t noticed the envelope. No, he’d left it slipped between the gas bill and a leaflet for window repair.
She had sent the summons. I saw them. The hands. Her hands. Snagging, shifting, sealing. Crawling across the desk. Tantalizing the crisp, white paper.
Ours was a gray town. A waxen atmosphere settled over the buildings and the roads, even the suburbs.
The Vacants appeared pale at first glance. But then again, everyone did. It was the in-between moments that cracked the veneer. Reaching for the same can on a shelf, waving down a taxi, handing off bills and coins across a
