"Look at that one," I squealed. It was humongous, moving like an x-ray of a fetus.

This is where he died, she says to me, and points to the damp pavement. Her hair is wet, and slicked against her neck. The humidity is making everything engulf her. The sleep shorts I bought her last July are loose on her now, but between the rain and

& jazz is juicy sometimes when it wants to be.