(from The New Yorker, Feb. 15, 2010)
She leads me into the house. There’s a moment of darkness in the hallway; when I hesitate, she hesitates with me. We walk through into the heat of the kitchen, where I am told to sit down, to make myself at home. Under the smell of baking, there’s some disinfectant, some bleach. She lifts a rhubarb tart out of the oven and puts it on the bench. Pale-yellow roses are as still as the jar of water they are standing in.
I’m not sure what to say about this one except it was excellent. Just a really thoughtful, smart story that keeps you hooked with each sentence. This is one of those stories that belong in scholastic anthologies; it would make a fine topic for some kind of English class. Got a classic, timeless vibe, with a couple mysterious moments I had to reread and contemplate.
Thanks for the recommendation, Uncle Bob!