Sabrina is trying to ignore the fact that Mr Bruce Curry has a partially open fly. Even in the pale office light at Barker Cassius Accounting, its bared teeth draw the eye; its silver tab points stiffly skyward. The zip can hardly be blamed, she thinks.
It was May, and the humidity lay like a wet dog on a porch, panting over the Mississippi River. Memphis slept, and except in the late-night haunts of Beale Street and the brightly lit houses of the city’s teenagers, a thick silence comforted the dreaming.
Why ever did my parents call me Jill? I have sometimes wondered. They must have wanted me to be an accountant. As a child I once wished I was Tanya, but in a typical Jill fashion, I was too timid to claim such an exciting name.