F-Word Spring 2011

a yellow couch. A pregnant woman was stirring a pot on the stove absently as she read aloud to herself from a cookbook. She glanced up at the two of them without much surprise.

At the sight of him, several cats slunk out from behind furniture and under tables, creeping slowly forward, all looking patched and ragged.

“Another stray?” the woman asked, equally droll and amused.

“She was hurt.” He led California to a couch and lowered her down, fragile like porcelain. A cat nimbly leaped onto her lap and settled down.

“Felix…” The woman trailed off, evidently not feeling that 1/(<$,(<#"/9(/9)(*59/7

“There’s enough for three.”

On the coffee table rested a copy of W with California’s face on it. The picture was crinkled and torn and stained, but, invariably, it was still California. ­­

She walked in New York aimlessly until she came upon a payphone. A battered Yellow Pages hung from an industrial­ ,/")+5/9(.#"%(#+/#(/9)(,1%)<$&>4(&)$2),(#0(1/(=$--1+5(1+(/9)(!"));)7( California felt tinges of green spring in the wind as she bent down beside it, even though winter was only weeks away. Flipping through, she randomly opened to a page of modeling agencies.

Their addresses and phone numbers marched in a neat line down column after column.

Without thinking, California tore the page out of the book and folded it in eighths. She walked up and down streets and $2)+3),(3+/1&(,9)(0#3+%(/9)(*",/($%%"),,(#+(/9)(&1,/7(D9)(<)+/( /9"#359(/9)(%##",($+%(3-(:$+'(=159/,(#0(,/$1",4(/#($(").)-/1#+( desk with a woman who was dressed stylishly, her hair freshly cut, lashes caked with forests of black mascara. She had painted black around her eyes, just like Olivia.

The woman’s penciled eyebrows rose as she took in California’s ragged copper hair, her discolored jeans, her frayed blouse, the leather cord around her temples and the guitar strapped 44