by Sarah Maclay
Always, he said, one should carry three wigs. He had just removed the one she most associated with his hair. She hadn’t seen it coming. Now he looked like a clown. Odd how it most affected the look of his teeth.
He demonstrated the red one. A dyed, greasy look, to wear to the club. Under the glitterball. When midnight is a colander. Little mirrors spreading holes of light. Maybe with specs.
(Meanwhile, every room in the house has been utterly re-arranged-“to create a sense of depth”-even the cast-off lampshades polished and assembled like a collection of vases on top of the bureau-silent, gleaming orbs. And she can’t remember the quiet words that join things.)
-from The White Bride
