“Forty guineas a week. The voices went into his ears but left no impression of their import. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. Nothing at all. The slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting.
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