Harry the Tooth is a good five meters in front of the women.
His heavy backpack drags his osteoporotic shoulders down almost to his knees.
Ceramic roses were clipped to her earlobes and beneath her black crocheted dress her breasts strained to get away from each other. She led me away from the drinks and the stereo and the cheese to the corner under the skylight, and sat me on an egg-shaped orange chair.
On her left hand was a diamond the size of a Brussels sprout. The palm reader sat herself on a low wooden bench, a Shaker pew that had been bought at auction.
In Susan Sontag’s words, Arbus’s work “chooses oddity, chases it, names it, elects it, frames it, develops it, titles it.” Does your brother entertain you with witty anecdotes? Or is he sort of sitting there, like some kind of prince who expects to be driven around?