| dc.description.abstract | For a woman of her age, thirty-seven, freshly divorced, she has, to her mind, not solved the
problem of her sex very well. So now her work in the escort business all those years ago will be
used against her. This warning is in a note from her lawyers. She is sitting cross-legged, trying to
warm up, in a book-sized patch of morning sunlight on her bunk, in a fetid cell meant for five but
with thirty crammed in. She has earphones in, with twelve bass-heavy tunes on a continuous
loop. It is hard for her sometimes to drum out the hum of the lovemaking, man-hating, babyyearning
and fatal stabbings of the women around her - all day long. It is just like being free in
the real world outside. The letter is typewritten, but has a handwritten salutation, "Dear Soraya,"
as if to convince her of its authenticity; and her existence. | |
