All libraries should have these luminous corners. That space near the blinds, behind the section reserved for the Quattrocento; or that seldom frequented mezzanine, obstructed by boxes and half-built ... [+]
In the glow of this neon mountain, framing her face like a fluorescent halo from behind the bar, she glances now and then out the window to the highway. Near sunset, the air is dry. Dusty with cigarette smoke that settles into the silky remains of unkept promises. She's nearly forgotten the orange taste of hope – Instead – compromised, bartered, given, what mattered. Her life is divided decidedly in two: who she is and who she used to be. Thin skin, her face has aged too quickly. Her hair stopped growing once it snaked to somewhere past her hips. And now she sometimes notices that it is