The Statue of Limitations

Soap sculpture of man and woman

They install the statue in our backyard, so we know how far we are allowed to roam without risk of pursuit. They plant it along the tree line, wielding chisels and pulleys. We watch from the window, the two of us, his hand on my shoulder. If you want me to explain the height of the statue, there’s the fact that my husband can stand under it for a bit of shade, and as you know, he’s quite tall. When I stand directly behind the statue, I disappear, and I’m quite wide these days. […]

The Tobacconist

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George searched his pockets for change, cluttering the counter with lint and pen caps, a crumpled tissue, pausing to clean his glasses while the tobacconist waited at the open register. It was the tobacconist he cared about, not the neatly lined cigars he had thumbed through moments earlier. George could see the smoke shop from his kitchen window, and last week had watched the tobacconist as he emerged and stood on the street corner in a pouring rain, until his coat was drenched through and rain coursed from his hat. […]

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