What do you think?
Rate this book


32 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 22, 2014
This is how women sometimes turn into witches. We come home from work one day too many to discover our partners curled up on the couch like leeches in a nice warm tank, and we decide it’s better to take up with a hut with chicken legs.
We were coming up on my stop. Soon, I would get off and walk to my job. Ilya would continue on to his “band” practice: with “Blak Boxx,” his “band.” Which was more or less an excuse to hang out with three of his closest frenemies drinking and playing the same five chords in ragged 4/4 time.
You know which five chords I mean, too: nothing more complicated than a D major.
Fortunately for “Blak Boxx,” most of rock and roll is built on the foundation of those five chords. Unfortunately for “Blak Boxx,” to play live music you still need to be able to change between them without looking at your hands.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “We need this money to pay for the tour. For the band.”
“Help me change our lives,” he whispered. “You know I’m doing everything I can. I just need you to believe in me.”
His breath shivered on the fine hairs behind my ear. He found my shoulders with his hands and massaged.
I was too tired to be angry, and anyway, he smelled good. I leaned back against his warm, hard belly. I let him smooth my hair and lead me to bed.

come to my blog!
"The elevator to our flat was out of order again. I finally pulled those shoes off and walked up five flights of gritty piss-smelling stairs barefoot, swearing to myself with every step that if Ilya was passed out drunk on the couch, I was carrying every pair of skinny black jeans and his beloved harness boots out into the courtyard and setting it all on fire. And then I was going to dance around the blaze barefoot, shaking my tangled hair like a maenad. Like a witch.
This is how women sometimes turn into witches. We come home from work one day too many to discover our partners curled up on the couch like leeches in a nice warm tank, and we decide it’s better to take up with a hut with chicken legs.
A good chicken-legged hut will never disappoint you.
Sure, he irritated me. That’s what partners do for each other, isn’t it? But I had thought we were a team. I had thought...
I had thought he would get his act together one of these days, I guess, and finally start to pull his own weight. I had thought I was saving him.
This is how women sometimes turn into witches. We come home from work one day too many to discover our partners curled up on the couch like leeches in a nice warm tank, and we decide it’s better to take up with a hut with chicken legs.
I said, “You never just tell me the truth. You could just tell me the truth.”
“Bah,” he said, pressing too hard. “Truth is unscientific. The very idea of Truth is unscientific.”
“You’re a cynic.” I almost said nihilist, which probably would have been true also, but that word had too much history behind it to just sling around at random.
“If we accept Truth,” he intoned, “then we believe we know answers. And if we believe we know answers, we stop asking questions. And if we stop asking questions, then all we’re doing is operating on blind faith. And that’s the end of science.”
Not much SF, but touching—plus it has a dog.

