Fiction | September 01, 2009
The Path of the Left Hand
Kent Nelson
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Globe wasn’t cold in winter, but there were months of less light and more darkness. In other years he’d played tennis, hiked in the mountains and increased his minutes on the stair-step machine, but that December and January he responded as if he were in a state of dormancy, like the fish in Queen Creek that lowered their body temperatures or the snakes that stayed in burrows for days at a time. He rarely went to the gym or the club. He watched television dramas and read English sea novels, and when Julia offered to host a party or they were invited somewhere, he begged off.
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