” “Where is your husband?” Anna asked. “Pump, pump, per-um-pump, Pum, Pump, Per-um. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. Take them, and may they prove as serviceable to you as I desire. “How did you find me?” She asked. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. I take their life.
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