The Strangler Fig Pas de Deux
“My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.” Shakespeare, All's Well that Ends Well.
The whirring fan was a triumph of optimism over effectiveness, not a skerrick of breeze cut through the treacly mugginess shrouding my skin. That humidity, redolent of molasses, mango, and frangipani, continually asked: Always the outsider in this fugging hell of a town? A bead of sweat pursuing its predecessor down my cleavage further dampened my décolletage. Despite wearing less, here, laundry is time-consuming. All of...
