m•matti

Worth ⋯ The Hill rose from the rivers as if caught in the jaws of enormous poisonous pliers. It sat atop Downtown, smudging the sky, a mangle of rooftops and chimneys and wires thrown together in a permanent refusal of gravity. From certain angles it almost looked noble ⋯ an intrepid working

Marjorie Kellerman hoped for a prince for twenty-nine years, beginning at age five thanks to Disney. She was tired of kissing frogs. Most men were disappointments in ill-fitting suits, but Jay Orbin really did seem different. This was at the Moulin on Fremont one mild August night in

The rain wasn’t letting up … three days without a break, driving grime down the smokestacks to dump into the gutters, then into roads and alleys and sidewalks, onto rivulets and oily puddles, then clinging to the coats of rodents and cats and the hands of trash pickers and the

Randall stood in his own hallway like a stranger on the subway, overcoat on shoulder, briefcase in hand, breathing the faint and familiar odors of domestic bliss — a whiff of Shalimar and Glo-Coat; a hint of caramelized onions; the earthy comfort of collected coffee grounds. Estrangement made this blend

The evening began like any other Tuesday after ten: rain drumming against the windows of the Moulin Bleu, smoke creeping along the ceiling like a wayward shroud, Blake nursing his first bourbon to the right of the stage, keeping an eye on the wise guys and riffraff. But when the