Saturday, July 21, 2018

the last book I ever read (Florida by Lauren Groff, except six)

from Florida by Lauren Groff:

The mother decides to take her two young sons to France for August.

She has been ambushed all spring by quick fits, like slaps to the heart. Where they come from, she doesn’t know, but she is tired of keeling over in the soap aisle or on the elliptical or in the unlit streets where she walks her dread for hours late at night.

Also, Florida in the summer is a slow hot drowning. The humidity grows spots on her skin, pink where she is pale, pale where she is tan. She feels like an unsexy cheetah under her clothes.

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