Excerpt

Irmadine stooped before her dressing table, tilting her head at a variety of awkward angles so she could see herself between the brown splotches that had been growing like giant amoeba, silent but always lurking, somewhere between or behind her mirror. She both smiled and winced at the image before her: smooth dark skin and full hips, but sad eyes and angry cheekbones. The previous night she had gone to a revival meeting, a shot of tonic for her soul, and like a drunken sailor ended up oversleeping. Now she was running late and fluttered the palms of her hands to smooth stray hairs that had escaped from her unprocessed hair that was braided into neat cane rows.