A Great And Terrible Beauty (39 page)

The wind shifts, bringing with it the smell of roses, strong and sweet. Across the ravine, I see her in the dry crackle of leaves. A deer. She spies me and bolts through the trees. I run after her, not really giving chase. I’m running because I can, because I must.

Because I want to see how far I can go before I have to stop.

LIBBA
BRAY
is the author of five and a half plays, a few short stories and essays, and lots of things that, in her words, “should never see the light of day.” She has worked as a waitress, a nanny, a burrito roller, a publishing plebe, and an advertising copywriter. Raised in Texas on a steady diet of British humor, underground bands, suburban dysfunction, and bad TV, she somehow managed to escape with only a few seriously deranged haircuts. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and son.