As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness. She changed into a halter top and a pair of tight jeans herself, and let Lucy brush her long, glossy hair as they talked about mascara, schoolwork, and boys. A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. This is where my character, Lucia, is coming from. Hurled over the sides of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery grave.
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