Chalk dust hovers a solid foot above the crushed shell lot. Everything seems to hang in suspension here; even the low white building might be held up by the afternoon’s thickness as much as held down by gravity or some other partiality to earth. Even breathing requires the labored selection of a particular breath from all possible breaths in the ether, bringing it close in to oneself like a blouse pulled down off the rack. Flet leans against the building. Surprisingly, the wall is quite cool, having been treated with a special heat-phobic coating, feels almost too cold, chemically cold against Flet’s back. She pulls away, but the cold cast by the building’s shell doesn’t even project an arm’s length. Unnatural cold.
McSweeney, Joyelle. Flet. Albany: Fence Books, 2007.