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Jacobik 45 Gray Jacobik Florence When you're seventy-eight, mastectomied, arthritic, and last year, widowed, there isn't much opportunity left— So Florence has men pursue her in various impassioned ways, real or imagined, up speedy elevators to eleventh-hour trysts, as her soul, no longer able to carry the terrible booty, loosens itself from the bony, plushy, rubber-banded treasure chest it's nested so long in, and lifts in one last brave heft towards stardom, towards angel dust, against propriety, good taste and probability—a woman blossoming against time like ice-broken branches blooming their buds off though snapped from the rising sap. ...


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