Pretty Carolina Sunset Linda Wang
Brows low, the sun bloodies the palmettos. Already, the heavy air dreams of nightfall circling blue mosquito pools, cupping dark eyes with layers of kohl. In the pleasure garden, the nurse parks the man with no legs on the brickwalk. She’s silent. It’s what he prefers. Not her Boston accent muddying up the Carolina sky with empty words: corned beef, some disease they cured, goings on in the world that’s left them both, passed on. This vacation town of newlyweds in vineyards with heavy lids, damp mouths, clothes patted down on branching limbs. The citronella’s lit. Vigil in darkness, cicada-rich. Their only disfigurements ones of the heart. The nurse must talk. “What a pretty sunset, Walter. I’ve wanted to come here ever since I was young. It’s romantic, isn’t it? I could cry.” “No,” he says. And on she goes: “We’ll be eaten alive. Out here, our blood’s a warm feast for the mosquitoes. Let’s go in. All right?”
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