By Lora Gray
I am sixteen and sitting on the edge of an empty subway platform when Peter, forever small, reappears. His black eyes are bright, and he smells like licorice and cinnamon. He is wearing purple mittens and a pigeon-feather skirt.
“Who the hell dressed you today?” I ask.
“I did.” Peter tips his head as if considering. “My taste is terrible. Tragic, really, but I didn’t have much choice.”
“Everybody has a choice.”
“Do they, dear Prudence?” (Continue Reading…)