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What remained was the inorganic, the synthetic—the metal and plastic and glass—everything else had been eaten. And that was the right word for it, too: eaten. Because it was the flowering vine that had done this, Jeff realized, not a passive force—not rot or dissolution—but an active one.
The miserable misery of the miser,
They’d gone to an Orioles game, had bought horrible tickets from a scalper, ended up not being able to see a thing.
She died with a sensation of drowning, with the memory of that rowboat, far out to sea, those weights pulling her ever deeper, the green waves closing above her head.
