The Point Is Not Her

Photographer showed george a photograph of a woman in a coat with a fur collar. The point is not her, the photographer said, as if reading george's mind. George knew from the elongated cromed tail light, the way the housing of the light was part of the tail fin, that the car was a catalague, probably an el dorado. He and this man, his passenger, were of the same generation. They'd grown up together in southern illinois outside carbondale. At the time, they had moved to chicago and got an apartment, and he'd taught rudimentary math and reading to women in a job corps programme.