tooknap press

Paul Newman is nowhere to be found after Patricia Neal strokes out in the back of the house. She was taking a breather from her pies and biscuits when the buildings fell, wiping her hands on her apron and brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek.

I tend to her. "I'm frightened of sex," she reveals quietly, between saltines and sips of soda water. I press a cold towel to her forehead to bring the fever down.