This story can be found in the November 9, 2015 issue of The New Yorker.
This review can also be found at The Mookse and the Gripes.
First Line: "He comes up to her on the dance floor. 'Nice purse,' he says almost immediately."
Last Line: "It's not the world's most comfortable nest. But it's a start."
I went through several sensations as I read this story. First: another twenty-something year old's drug story?? Then: a lot of fragments that I have to seam together, and I don't feel like doing the work on another twenty-something year old's drug story. To: there seems to be something familiar here in this heroine's journey. And finally: I liked it. A lot.
I was unsure for most of the story. The nameless protagonist and her cocaine struggles were well-described, I just felt like it is a very common story line these days. Girl meets a boy in a club. They do drugs together. Her odd, drug-induced behaviors...
But then the story follows on the wings of insects found in the coke - leaves, flowers, crackers, dirt... and a nostalgia - clearly evoked memories of her very young years - comes wafting in smelling like chicken broth and sounding like her grandmother.
I have recently finished reading How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents and so I felt comfortable in this young woman's reminisces of her privileged background and current stylish existence.
There were hints to history and politics, but the reader is allowed to come to their own conclusions about them. The implications of adult politics on children who then grow up is evident but not decided for us. And for this reason, I was able to connect with this twenty-something year old in another drug story as an individual still dealing with sadness and loss in her little girl heart.
Photo Credit: http://www.newyorker.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/151109_r27259-884.jpg