By the glow of the headlights, Reney counted again. A calf was gone. A bawling cow trotting ruts into the fence line confirmed Reney’s count.

Pushed from its hidden end, a sofa drifted into the parking lot under my window. The pushes became feeble thrusts and then short convulsions, until, with a final spasm, the couch nudged one of the abandoned supermarket carts by the trash containers and came to a rest.

Two sisters lived together in a two-room apartment. They were very poor. For lunch, they usually had a boiled potato; for breakfast, a slice of bread with a glass of hot water. 

Onstage, I’m thinking about the ­postman who was so overwhelmed by the amount of mail he had to deliver that he threw it all, and then himself, into the sea. 

My husband, who loved festivals, who was a great fan of festivals, wanted to get to the square in time for the first band at eleven o’clock.

“Enter,” she says, and is obeyed.

What is Miss Treece’s trouble, according to a popular notion?

Lexy knew better than to turn around. The swings were twisted up to the steel frame, the soles of her flip-flops planted in the dust.

My cashier’s black hair was beautiful. Though not unlike mine, it was shinier and thicker, and hung glamorously down to her waist. It looked strong, too, like Christopher Reeve’s in the Superman movies.