Sinker
Little Rock, Arkansas, 1979
Hand over hand, I lathered and rubbed with water and soap, my kid climbing my leg. The groupie next to me washed, too, then smacked gloss between her lips. I’m gonna sleep with every player on the team, she drawled. I checked out the sink—its white notion of enamel and cast iron, the fine crack near the drain—listening hard. She and her friend giggled like girls getting ready for their Debutante ball. The sink being fine and all, I picked up my child, and quit.
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