A story from oh comely issue ten. It was a one-street African town in Swaziland between the lowveld where the sugar cane grew and the mountainous highveld of forests. The metalled road stretched from our low white house, past the market where children sold oranges from neat piles on sacks and witch doctors gave consultations, past the single . . .
I am sitting at the bar at El Quijote beneath the Chelsea Hotel, on a high-top stool with my feet dangling. My feet look good because they are in new red and black leather cut-out boots with pencil straps around the calves. I have been looking at my feet all day in window panes since I bought the boots in the Salvation Army store on East 23rd Street. Every time I catch a glimpse, they make me smile. The boots are equal . . .