Dart Girl

"Her skirts swish away from her legs, and then toward them. The tips of her red ballerina shoes peek out from underneath her skirts. Her glossy hair is brushed back to expose her neck. If her skin weren't wrecked, she'd look like a doll. She always was a doll, always perfect and good. We swing like that for maybe an hour, the chill of the evening creeping over us with little wet hands, during which I look up at the magnolia above us. Just you wait, I tell the moon. Pieces of it are just visible through the leaves. Whenever I look at her, she is smiling her gentle Madonna smile, the one that means nothing I've done has touched her."

"She's sitting on her balcony, sipping a mint julep and surveying her yard as though she finds the view tiresome. Her clothes are carefully pressed, obviously made of the finest linens in the creamiest shade of white. She has the air of a woman accustomed to butlers with hot white cloths held out on the ends of silver tongs. Her hair flickeringly gleams in the light from the many candles she has set along the ledges of the windows behind her. Half her face is missing. She's the best person I know."