It’s ten degrees and I’m weaving through traffic on my hapless little Huffy Five Speed like a suicidal snowflake seeking heat. I am aimlessly biking the city, like a blind man, trying to not think of Flora or my parents or Swan or my job or this series of increasingly irritating memories of my ex-boyfriend Ben that keep surfacing.
I stop at Barnes & Noble to look at sexy fitness magazines but am drawn to the religion section. I find an artist’s rendering of St. Agnes in a big hardbound book called Lives of the Saints. She looks a lot older than 13, which is what Wikipedia listed as her age. But she is gorgeous with really long hair, and full lips. In the picture she wears a velvet outfit that accentuates her tiny girl waist. I look for something in her face that would explain her obsessi
