ABSTRACT
“kiss me,” Cecile commands. She is standing against the bedroom door in her underpants and a ripped undershirt. The Saturday morning sun—which slants at its unique Saturday angle—pierces the cracks in the bamboo window shade and refracts off the pink wall. I can hear Cecile’s soft breathing. I can hear seven-year-old Colby’s snorts of sleep in the next room. I can hear my own heart.
