From Little Bee:
"On the other side of the glass, the day smelled like summer. My neighbor had shuffled along his washing line, three feet to the left. He'd finished pegging Y-fronts. Now he was on to socks. His washing hung like prayer flags, petitioning daytime gods: I seem to have moved to the suburbs, I'm afraid. Can anything be done?"
Monday, March 14, 2011
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