She dug her tiny hand as far into the sand as she could manage, and used the other hand to bury it, as far down as it could go, no threat of hell because that is where she was living. It was merely a ritual, but it made her feel safe again and allowed her to think of her family, her parents laughing over Sunday morning breakfast, as her and her sister impersonated the family who sat in the pew in front of them in church. You know the kind of blasphemy that wasn’t really blasphemy. Of course, now she didn’t know right from wrong, although maybe she never did.
Where do you get your Chicken Wings?
In New York, there is often a discussion as to what makes someone a real New Yorker. Some people use the measurement of time. They've lived in New York for X number of years, they only go out on weeknights, and their bartender attended or will attend their wedding. The first-name basis with your pizza guy and the ability to not pay until later at the local bodega when you forget your wallet could be a decent measure of New Yorker status as well. I won't dismiss those points, they could be an accurate measure to some, but they are not mine. Mine is where you think the best chicken wings are and Dallas BBQ is the answer.
She had finished reading the biography of a famous artist by a fellow who had worked for the artist, and mostly she had liked the book, but at times she thought the writer was too pleased with himself. Perhaps, that was just a by-product of being too close to your subject. She didn’t know, but she sensed that in many ways the book was a love letter to the artist in a way even the writer didn’t understand. The end feeling for her about the writer was that he was too proud of himself without a certain kind of love to be involved. Deep love like that of a mother or lover that never leaves, even when they leave you.