Indelicacy

by Amina Cain

Antoinette’s handwriting, I had begun to see it written across her face. What she wanted, in cursive.

It rains in a drawing, and if the drawing is good, you feel wet. The hard rain falls on the umbrellas moving slowly down the street.

I tried to speak to my old employer even more coldly than he had spoken to me, but he was a tough match. “How unpleasing you are,” I said. “Like a tooth that hasn’t been brushed in years and is growing hair on it.”