A letter from ClarissaI couldn't cross the threshold. I stood in the narrow strip of front yard with the busy street behind me, staring down at the offending rock centred on a tile on its largest face with its craggy rear end pointing at me. The positioning was precise, thought through, planned. The rock had not rolled out of a closed cupboard and bumped its way across the floor tiles from the kitchen to the front door. It wasn't possible.
Behind me, a group of teenagers walked by, chatting and laughing.
Summoning what little courage I had, I stepped inside and closed the door. Shutting out the street felt final, as though inside the apartment existed an alternate reality, one I wanted no part of. I rounded the rock with caution, half expecting the cold hard lump to rise up and hurl itse
