Kamarovsky’s Girl by Elizabeth Woodham
Waiting in Kamarovsky’s apartment, I pick at the lace of my skirt. He is late. I’m used to his disregard of my minutes and hours; my days. A glass of wine at hand, I sip from time to time. It’s my second, I’m not yet numb. Dan hovers like Dickens’s accusatory ghosts, and I try wrenching him out of my head and setting him down at a distance. Far, far away. He is away from me still. I allow my thoughts to flitter-flutter. My mind reaches back to school and everything I learned there, all the things I taught there.