A
25 A One night, early on, F came up from the basement, eyebrows singed and hands shaking. I wanted to laugh, but swallowed it. He went to the sink and poured a glass of water, which spilled down the front of his shirt as he drank. I laughed. Fire’s already out, I said, pointing to his wet shirt, and he turned toward me. He ran his hands over his face. It didn’t work, he said, and I nodded. He couldn’t quite smile. You should just pluck out what’s left, V said, appraising his eyebrows. You look ridiculous. I’ll shave them for you if you like, she said. He didn’t agree, though the ends of some hairs were black and crackled, dust of them brushed off on the fingers. For weeks when F went to smoke V held the lighter far from him, taunting. It was almost maternal, how she arched her hand between him and the flame, how she pulled the hair back from his forehead to inspect. The problem’s not that you fucked the charge up, she said 26 to him. The problem’s that no one will listen to you until you’re good-looking again. ...
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