Eliza
September 2005
The main thing she sees from the lodge entryway is her materials – torn or cut, she doesn't know, paint cut across them, across the scene she was dealing with, all tossed to the ground. Her easel lies on the floor, containers and brushes upset, the smell of turps, the oily smooth of vegetable oil—the smell of wine, the thick, sweet smell of weed.
Pierce is lying exposed on the calfskin pouffes, chested close to a lady with light hair, stripped aside from her jeans and Pierce's shirt free over her shoulders. The performer. The one from that evening, from the cabin. Eva Robertson. She is sleeping or dropped; it's difficult to tell. Her fingernails are short, square, painted dark.
Present to us a few bites. Us. Obviously.
'No bites?' Pierce stands relentles
