Iona Moon
“The man in the attic vacuumed every day. One night the man next door fell against the wall and cussed. Iona pictured him, huddled on the floor, nothing but a few inches of plaster between them. She could see the mirror image of her own room: stained mattress on a metal frame, dresser with three drawers and loose knobs, one lamp, one straight-back chair, a closet without a door, two wire hangers. She heard him stagger to the bed and collapse again. The springs were shot. The mattress sagged. Ion...a felt his back curve into it and remembered the other room, how it looked afterward, bed stripped, chair empty, though she herself had sat there hour after hour. Dresses still hung in that closet, all but one, and Iona wanted to stand in the close dark, feel rough wool and worn cotton against bare skin, smell the leather of broken shoes. She wished to watch the last line of light disappear as the door closed and she stayed inside.
She heard footsteps, fast and light, the Scavenger Lady—that’s what Mrs.MoreLess
She heard footsteps, fast and light, the Scavenger Lady—that’s what Mrs.MoreLess
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