Amy LeBlanc
Lady Grey She used her tongue to her moisten her lips that flaked like the wing of a moth. I emptied tealeaves into the pot while she spoke and nodded my head at all appropriate times in her story. “I couldn’t smell anything at all. Then I died. It happened,” she snapped her fingers, “just like that.” She said this while running her tongue along the rim of her teacup. I’d refilled it with earl grey tea and leaves clung to her upper lip. She shook from the strain of lifting the cup towards herself and a few strands of hair loosened from the turtle clip beneath her hat. Her skin draped across her bones, loosening when she spoke, and tightening when she was quiet. “It was the sea birds that finally killed me—damn greedy things. I just lay there with my sun hat blown off and my dress lifting up in the wind. They pecked and pecked and pecked until there was nothing left of me. When I woke 78 |
antilang. no. 2
