was pushed into the building in a wheelchair with a half-sized seat, several straps pulled not exactly tightly, but tightly enough, over her lap. She loved, loved those skirts from several years ago, weighted at the bottom and voluminous, with ruched sides billowing below the stitches into parachutes – so comfortable, so (as is said) forgiving.But of course, with a real parachute you’d be up in the air, dangling above the Atlantic. Blowing right past the condos overlooking the water, such as 1800 Atlantic, where her son Darryl lived with the nicer of his twin sons following an abominable stroke when he was fifty-six: a non-smoker; a jogger; okay – a few too many recreational drugs in his youth. Darryl spent many days on the balcony, staring at the water. She didn’t do that – she wasn’t in that sort of shape, thank God – but she did sometimes cross her eyes and look at nothing as a way of introspecting.She was being carried into the building’s private elevator, key-activated so that everyone else coming to the party would have to climb the stairs, regardless of age, infirmity, fame.
What do You think about G133: What Have We Done (2015)?
