mone y

Her voice is full of money, he said. I didn't think so. When I met her I thought her voice was like the way the lamp in our small living room flickers on and off again, or how I feel when I put my hands through my long dark hair and immediately wish I could cut it. Her voice was an in-between place, it was a yes and a no, it was sharp and velvety and irresponsible and saturated with something raw like bloody meat or a bar of glycerin soap all at once. Her voice isn't full of money, I finally told him on a day when it was raining intermittently and so I felt courageous. He stared at me for a while like he was flirting with the idea that I could be right, and then he said easily, flatly, perhaps not. But yours is.