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Szmura would sometimes bring home a woman—he had an unmistakable taste for the meretricious kind

The crushing sadness of hotel rooms; the gelid lights and clean notepads; the blank walls and particles of someone else’s erased life: I rolled him into this as if into hell.

I stared at him with watery eyes, pleading for compassion, while he berated my sloppy prosody

I wanted to kiss her, I wanted her to leave her stertorous husband, deflower me, and cultivate me in the garden of my youth.

The day was all around her. The refulgent day, she thought.