I know faces. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. 132 “I thought you wanted me—you told me so when we kissed in the park!” He cried. The man could put a bullet through her before she could hope to reach any one of them. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window.
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