Steam lifted from the two mugs of strong coffee I’d brewed. For me, caffeine was a necessity—I hadn’t slept that well, tossing and turning until the sky finally lightened with the approach of dawn. I’d borrowed my mom’s concealer to try to cover the dark circles under my eyes, and chose what was, for me anyway, a pretty tame outfit: long embroidered Indian-cotton skirt that flared around my ankles, a T-shirt from a San Francisco club band that Lincoln liked, and a thick black belt I’d found in the men’s department of the Valencia Street Salvation Army. I’d had to cut off almost a foot of the length to make it fit, piercing the leather with a punch needle and blanket-stitching it with waxed thread to finish the raw edges, but it was worth the effort for the buckle alone, hammered silver in the shape of Texas with a turquoise cabochon inset for the capitol. I topped it all off with a zipped gray Blake School sweatshirt that was literally falling apart at the seams. The sweatshirt had been Lincoln’s when he was a freshman, and when he outgrew it the following year he gave it to me.
What do You think about Hanging By A Thread (2012)?
