Ove is fity-nine.
We’ve been sitting for an hour or more here, up high, in the airport’s main food hall, which overlooks the duty-free, clothes, electronics, accessories, and souvenir stores below.
Amerigo Bonasera sat in New York Criminal Court Number 3 and waited for justice; vengeance on the men who had so cruelly hurt his daughter, who had tried to dishonor her.
Gestures are all that I have; sometimes they must be grand in nature.
If Grace Stanton had known the world as she knew it was going to end that uneventful evening in May, she might have been better prepared.
I sat at my desk and stared at a calendar with a bunch of dancing tamales on it and played with a little piece of paper and thought about the fact that I was twenty-six and still a virgin.
It’s the middle of December, and everything is frozen over.