...from earth beneath the floor,the apothecary of my soul,the weight of what is— no shelf of fragrant balms, with echoes rising, a ledger, of my forgotten

In the kitchen, Lora, wiped her fingers of the quiche on her apron as the scent of fondue gurgled from a small cauldron-pot on the stove—slow simmering now like archeology—its bubbles rising and popping—then sighing—with a pathology of tonight's...

Her fingers twitched against the marble counter in the kitchen. Jeanette, a 47-year-old raptured endowed member of the neighborhood's debauched coven of decadent insomniacs, and bowling widows. Stirring the fondue, calling the kettle black as the cheese bubbled over...