There’s a conspiratorial, almost voyeuristic, enjoyment in the intimate glimpses offered into the lives of these characters. As in this passage:
As he brought down the plates, his shirt lifted, and there was her favorite part of man – the hollow above hip bone and below ribs, where the pelvis arched like a rainbow down, down, down.
Follow the rainbow.
It was easy. She took a few steps forward so she was in front of him, at the sink, the sponge and a soapy dish in her hands like props, like the wooden kitchen toys the children used. Make-believe time. His breath was hot on the back of her head. He was close, but still not close enough.
“You can just put them over there,” she said, pointing to the far corner of the counter with a soapy finger, so he had to move into her – she as stationary as a block of stone. And it was so easy to take a little step back. How wrong could a baby step be, she thought, when nothing was even happening, there weren’t doing anything, and when his dick pressed against her ass, they both froze, the hot steam from the running water billowing up into her face so her skin felt dewy. As if lost in a cloud.
Ms. Fierro’s deft handling of her impressive cast makes them familiar without ever succumbing to the temptations of stereotype. Like the unanticipated people who drift in and out of our own lives, these individuals are almost painfully real. First published last year by St. Martin’s Griffin, it’s available now as a paperback, just in time for holiday giving to the mommies and daddies on your list.