"So I was at the gas station the other day, and I saw that there was braille on the pumps. I don't see how they can cater to blind drivers. I mean, there are certain rights you should lose once you lose what makes you a person."

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They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.

— Janet Fitch