Kathleen Murphy gripped her can of Mace tightly as she rode the Red Line to work, hands sweating inside the latex of her surgical gloves. All around her, her fellow T riders were openly clutching Mace or pepper spray as well, all glancing around the car from behind safety goggles and surgical masks.
The May dance was a ward for the entire village, painted in young flesh.
The speed of light is way too slow.
She was always the cerebral one. / He was a tumult, a tempest, a true tribulation. / But for him she learned accounting to sort lentils, / Husbandry to pluck golden fleece, / Physics to contain beauty in a box.