casually across their shoulders, each of them far more toned and muscular than me. Their
forms stretched across Mrs. Flanagan’s gold -tinted reflective glasses as they walked by her, but
her head never moved. If she tracked them as they passed, there was no way to tell. Her eyes
could have been closed for all anyone knew, or they could have been shooting daggers of
disdain.
Doug’s feelings for her were clear enough. He said hello to her in a sing -songy way that
shocked me. It was mocking, derisive, and no way I would ever speak to an elder. This went on
every day until she finally rose to the bait.
“Hey, Greg,” she cooed, raising her glasses to the top of her head.
“Yeah?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Then she lay back down on her chaise and repositioned her glasses while Greg’s friends
howled in delight.
When Mrs. Flanagan left, Greg turned to me. “Hey, you banging her, or what?” he
asked.
“No.”
“Yeah, sure. Just watch out for her. She’s a tiger all right. But tigers have claws you
know.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, fighting an impulse to defend her.
“Dig beyond the newspapers and magazines in her recycling bin. See what you find.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of glass, my friend. A lot of glass.”
14
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