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| by Wendy Zhao |
The Leg
by MAC BARRETT
The leg that fell out of the sky was dressed in a sheer black stocking, a seam down the middle. Not far from where it landed, under a Buick, was the shiny black pump that went with it. Seeing the leg he stopped and looked around, but this was late at night in the financial district, empty streets, and the bars were barely a noise in the distance. He had often remarked to himself, after having stayed late at the office, that these streets at this hour, with their lost winds and desolation, were a kind of Midwest.
This much was evident — that the leg had come from above, that the shoe beneath the Buick belonged to it, and that no one was here to deal with this situation other than himself. So he pulled up on his pant legs and knelt down and reached for the black pump under the car — and then, like a child finding a piece to a puzzle, took it to where the leg lay, and knelt again. The leg was on its side, so he righted it, holding the heel in the palm of his hand.
He could almost have forgotten — in that moment — that there was no woman here. No, he did forget: there was a woman. And he held that woman’s foot in his hand. The toes, he could see, through the sheer stocking, painted black, looked ready for life or for sex. He could see in his mind her hair’s dark length, the flip of her bangs. He could see the corners of her mouth, its ease with a slight smile so long as it didn’t spill over into the sloppy happiness of fools. She was sparing with her joy. She was protective of her sadness. She had been through being through things, had tried drugs, men who did them. She was difficult to please, honest, real.
