‘You haven’t lost the pregnancy,’ says the sonographer. ‘But I can’t find a heartbeat.’ The sonographer’s sentences don’t belong together. Amy notices that she has a tan face and a white neck, like parts from different bodies. ‘Can I see?’ she says. The sonographer points at the screen. In a corner of Amy’s womb, floating
Tag: Death and the Teenage Stripper
Iola Reynolds steps into the bay of her bedroom window from where the funeral goers will see her strip. Undeterred by the gauze-like layer of dust from the crematorium smokestack already clinging to the windowpanes, she presses ahead with the striptease, angling her body towards a Mercedes Benz hearse that crawls cockroach-like towards her window.
