NOVEMBER 20, 2011
The owl is still crashing through tree branches in Vale’s mind as she walks the last stretch of woods home; she feels its wings beating at the edge of her skin, feels its presence behind every tree.
She feels spooked—surprisingly so.
When she reaches Hazel’s field she stops. There’s a light on in Hazel’s bedroom, unusually late. It’s out of her way, but Vale walks in that direction, up to the old farmhouse, and peers in the window just to be sure everything is fine.
It takes her a moment to understand what she’s seeing.
Hazel in front of her bedroom mirror, unclasping her bra, bringing her sun-spotted hands to her breasts.
Hazel reaching her left hand down her body, down her stomach, to the crease between her legs.
Jesus, Vale thinks, ducking below the window frame.
An explosive silent laugh rises from her chest.
But the laugh ends. Vale crawls away from the window and walks back through the field, feeling the earth’s faint curvature beneath her feet. A living body, the earth: a woman’s spine, those stones she nearly trips over. Shit, she thinks. The unbearable loneliness.
And also: good for you, Hazel, you old lady. Seeking pleasure. Finding it.