Winter 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 1 FictionJanuary 1, 2000 |

The Human Season

Monday and Monday and Monday pass, all ragged-sky and midday-sun sameness, all closets and drawers she stares into. None of what once kept time works. Orlando! Her girl-self left home just as finally, then kept coming back until she had found it: baby bracelet, lace cap, scribble, and ribbons; what she was before she was, before otherness and memory. The nights without Orlando home go on. ❦ ❦ ❦ "Don't even start!" Orin says, but she does. "It's always something wrong, goddamnit!" Orin says or else, "I'm exhausted." Orin, no sweet name there, just ordinary, ornery, elbow-ugly Orin, asks if she has thought of something positive, say a movie. Tonight, tomorrow, he doesn't care—does she? She shrugs and shrugs again when the movie is over, and Orin asks, "Whose idea was that?" Earlier or later, the same night or any other, Orin asks, "Why did you bring me here?" "You said you were hungry. Weren't you?" she asks. Nig

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Fitting

By Edith Pearlman

Monday and Monday and Monday pass, all ragged-sky and midday-sun sameness, all closets and drawers she stares into. None of what once kept time works. Orlando! Her girl-self left home […]

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