“Are all writers self-destructive?” she’d asked me, her eyes merely inquisitive, as if I were a tour guide and she was asking about the weather in Timbuktu.
PERFIDY BY JAN ALEXANDER 23THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 32
For twenty years I’ve had this picture frozen in my head: Elise in her green satin dress, the light going out of her fine-boned face as she wat…