She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. My dress, my person will be minutely described. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. Earles closed the piano with a little bang. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone.
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