Caucasian woman, early 30s, with short brown hair, wearing white jacket, jeans with large rolled cuffs, and white patent leather flats.

Change of Heart, Jodi Picoult (Atria)

Page 221:

At this hour, the vigilant masses outside the prison were tucked into their sleeping bags and tents, underneath the artificial day created by the enormous spotlights that flooded the front of the building.

They’d agreed to the split, a mutual conclusion drawn from a shared childhood which dictated that a man and woman would have children, not two women together. To look to the future and not see a child, maybe two, a brother and a sister, two brothers, perhaps, even two brothers and a sister, Sam, Geoffrey and Kate, was not in the plan. They each dated, one sleeping with the boy after one night of cheap chicken wings and pitcher beer. Six weeks later, when she pushed her way through the cluster of protesters, she realized that she was protecting her belly, wishing her girlfriend was there to carve a path home.

South Asian woman, mid 50s, with curly shoulder length hair pulled back in loose ponytail, wearing fine, gold rimmed glasses, and black jacket. Her granddaughter sits bored, hanging off a pole, knees bumping together. The woman smiles at her page, fine where she is.

Feels Like Family, Sherryl Woods (Mira)

Page 113:

Erik’s gaze locked with hers. He couldn’t seem to look away from that hint of vulnerability he saw once again in her eyes. “I guess we both just need to stick to our guns.” “I suppose so,” she said, though with surprisingly little enthusiasm.

There are only 26 underground parking spaces in her three storey building. She’s occupied #18 since 1997. He’s had #20 since 2003. #19 became vacant in 2005, left open for visitors. Through the gap, they rarely say anything, occasionally lifting their travel mugs to greet the day. Or, pausing long enough to wonder if the super will ever get around to fixing the faulty door on the shared washing machine. This weekend, #19 wasn’t empty. Local plates. Soft leather briefcase in back. Diet coke can in the cup holder. Monday morning, the car was gone. They peered at one another over an oil stain, got in their cars, and waited for the garage door to roll open.

Black woman, mid 20s, fresh-faced, with short black hair pulled into tight ponytail, wearing black t-shirt and jeans.

The Malice Box, Martin Langfield (Penguin UK)

Page 218:

A figure appeared in the bathroom doorway, holding up a bedsheet between them. He vaguely saw what he thought was a woman’s silhouette behind the sheet before it flew at him, covering his face and chest. A hand came behind it, forcing his head under the water, forcing the wet sheet over his nose and mouth.

That morning, she left without a jacket, grateful it would remain warm enough into the evening that she wouldn’t need one, saving herself a few extra dollars and precious minutes in line later that night at the club. Shortly after 1:00 a.m., the music stopped and the manager spoke from the DJ booth. Not to worry, there were extra cabs on order. Everyone would get home, safe and sound. The transit strike was on. Her pockets empty, her friends already gone, she started the three hour walk, cold and in trouble.

Caucasian male, 50s, with curly dark hair, wearing dark dress jacket and shirt. Family and students gathered close to the stage, whooping when he took the mic.

The Sentinel, A.F. Moritz (House of Anansi Press)

From “You That I Loved”

You that I loved all my life long,
you are not the one.
You that I followed, my line or path or way,
that I followed singing, and you
earth and air of the world the way went through,
and you who stood around it so it could be
the way, you forests and cities,
you deer and opossums struck by the lonely hunter
and left decaying, you paralyzed obese ones
who sat on a falling porch in a deep green holler
and observed me, your bald dog barking,
as I stumbled past in a hurry along my line,
you are not the one…

Her head rolls into his shoulder nightly. Their hands meet at their waists, their legs entwined. In sleep they align, their bodies folding into one another, a reduction of the best they have to offer.

Caucasian woman, with curly dark hair, wearing a black suit, turquoise scarf and turquoise bracelet. She’s a tiny force as she takes the stage. She’s quiet and gracious. And she’ll wrench you.

Chameleon Hours, Elise Partridge (House of Anansi Press)

Page 27:

From “Buying the Farm”

A little folding of the hands to sleep —
straw hat tipped over my nose,
I’m dozing to the lilac’s inquisitive wrens;
you, your spade flung aside,
sprawl, just starting to snore.

It’s curtains for us,
clasping hands behind the dusty, still-swaying swag —
at last these doublets can come off,
the swipes of rouge and sideburns, then we’ll stroll
to greet the flashing city with our true faces.

She stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. The high rise view stretched across the lake to the next major city. Spring was here, just enough that the window could be left open morning and night. A train was coming. It would soon pass by, through the trees, past the schoolyard, maybe a hundred cars long if they were lucky. In the next room, they felt each other’s bellies. Mine. Yours. 80 and 30, connected by an intrusive mass. The kettle whistled. She rinsed the pot, dropped in the bags, and poured the water. Civil now, but come winter she’d watch the pot crash in an exhausted heap in the parking lot.