Vivian hovered over the stove, heating a cup of milk for the Strong Man convalescing in our bathtub. We found him at the edge of the woods behind the house, face down in the snow. A gang of children had scrawled obscenities all over his biceps and pecs, and a tiny row of blue blisters glistened on his upper lip like a mustache of radioactive lice. In those last hours of gravity, the night was a hush, except for the wooden spoon scraping the bottom of the iron pot. The cats sniffed the air beneath the bathroom door. When I peeked through the keyhole, I saw that he had switched off the lights. All I could make out were his shiny red tights rising in the dark, like a jellyfish billowing up from the bottom of the ocean.
The following links are virtual breadcrumbs marking the 12 most recent pages you have visited in Bucknell.edu. If you want to remember a specific page forever click the pin in the top right corner and we will be sure not to replace it. Close this message.