Properties of Glass
My father died at lightning's hand
one summer evening as he exercised his dogs in the fields
above the town. I was in the garden bending to hoe peas and
beans, hilling potatoes, picking aphids from tomatoes, when
the sky darkened and the winds rose in a sudden squall. I
hurried inside, leaving the door ajar in order to hear the
rain on the stone tiles as I waited for the click of the dogs'
nails and the pounding of my father's feet on his return.
Bakalov started caressing her and Beth
was scared by his dry palms moving rapidly all over her, his
unnatural quick fingers planting warts in her skin as they
touched her. The experience was all the more unpleasant because
of the question that Bakalov kept constantly asking her, "Does
it feel good?"