South Asian woman, early 20s, brown hair with purple streak, handsome nose, long sleeved collared shirt under short sleeved polo shirt, ski vest, worn Grandpa scarf wrapped tight around neck, sitting on the bench with her girlfriend’s head in her lap.

LIAR, Lynn Crosbie (Anansi)

About 103 pages in, just about to end the page.

The Polaroids remain in the locked box; its keys locked elsewhere:
such complicated intimacy.

They pre-date you, and have been winnowed down to a select
group, that flatter me and no one else.

Your lips had parted. You’d wanted to shape it out loud. Feel your breath empty on the last syllable. Winnowed. Your girlfriend had smiled, arching her neck to get closer. She’d thought you were making your kissy face.

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, short black hair with auburn streaks, angular glasses, striped tight sweater under brown army jacket, blue and pink striped scarf, finger placed gingerly as page marker, staring out window.

Gargoyles, Bill Gaston (Anansi)

About 77 pages in:

No one could say why Andy was there before the cement got poured, wedged between plywood forms a foot apart. The autopsy showed he wasn’t drunk. The word suicide was never ventured, for an odd suicide it would’ve been, Andy jumping in even as he saw the truck coming.

What did you take in that made you stop reading? Back in the early 90s a young man from Ridley College checked into a seedy hotel on St. Paul Street, took some pills, and left his room, walking to the end of the hall. He turned around and broke into a sprint, back down the hall, into his room and through the window. Two minutes later I pushed my way through the crowd, unaware. His head was split open, his blood sticky on the bottom of my Converse sneaker.

Or perhaps you didn’t like the way the gentleman beside you looked over your shoulder.