Yoshimoto’s elegant, fey touch with such weighty themes as despair and fate, [and] her urban images distilled and shimmering as haiku . . . continue to make her a welcome and uniquely assured voice.” —Paper magazine
I shall refer to her as Lizard here, but not because of the small lizard tattoo that I discovered on her inner thigh.
The woman has round, black eyes that gaze at you with utter detachment, like the eyes of a reptile. Every bend and curve of her small body is cool to the touch, so cool that I want to scoop her up in my two hands.
This may bring to mind the image of a man holding a bunny or a chick, but that’s not what I mean. What I imagine is the strange, tickling sensation of sharp claws scampering around in my palms. And then, when I open up my hands to take a peek, a thin, red tongue lashes out. Reflected in those glassy eyes, I see my own lonely face, peering down, looking for something to love and cherish. That’s what Lizard feels like to me...
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