A small room above a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.
I am still reading Light In August, having taken a break after returning from Portland, when things got busy and reading for pleasure was work. Last night Christmas was caught in Mottsville, and the person whose husband wanted him dead is his granny.
But the section I keep returning to concerns Christmas and the woman from the cafe, his attraction to her. I remember that kind of attraction. I remember being Christmas's age.