Jane wanted chickens. Live ones. “Four of them,” she told me matter-of-factly. She thought about it some more then said, “No six. Yes, six. And red.” “Six red chickens,” I repeated, not looking up. We were having lunch outside, as it was an unseasonably warm day. I was trying to decide what I wanted to eat knowing full well that I would order the same thing I always did. I like to think that I want something new; that...
Chickens In the brothel
C
