It catches him across the jaw and the world’s a blinking, spinning mess, as he tumbles on the long axis of his body to spit blood on the stubblegrass of Fort Wayne, Indiana. What the fuck’s in Fort Wayne anyway? A credit union, two Comfort Inns, herds of engineers and all her childhood. She grew those doe-brown eyes here, and those legs and those white teeth: learned to count, drank beer, stole candy, killed a rabbit in her mother’s van. He came to meet Fort Wayne, and it met him back, with the sharp clean ring of copper pipe on bone.
Published on Thursday, June 24, 2004, at 10:27 am.