Chapters (45)
- Cover Page
- The Scent of Your Breath
- Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“The next morning, you know they’ve come because your hair is woven into tiny, almost invisible plaits that are impossible to undo.”
“Impossible?” Now I could only muster single words.
“Not impossible exactly … you have to spray your hair with oil and recite these phrases.” You took a deep breath and your huge belly swelled until it seemed about to burst. “Holy Monday, Holy Tuesday, Holy Wednesday, Holy Thursday, Holy Friday, Holy Saturday, Sunday the night women will lose their wings.”
I sat there with my mouth open and whispered. “Beautiful …”
“And remember: every time you see a dragonfly, kill it. If you let it live, it’s more likely that you will die.”
We went on splashing our feet in the water while I allowed myself to fill up with the fascination of your stories.
“I hoped you would come back soon,” I say to Thomas as I finish the last of the food from my empty, dirty plate.
“Sorry, I had problems at work,” he replies, embarrassed.
I’m embarrassed by lies and hypocrisy, they make me feel small and insignificant, they make me slide into the certainty that the other person thinks me stupid, inferior, untrustworthy. In this case, mad.
I summon my courage and say, “Please tell me—who’s Viola?”
“Who’s Viola?”
“Who’s Viola?” I repeat.
“Oh yeah, she’s the one who let me have the dog,” he says and points to the little mongrel crouched beside us, gazing up at us with those eyes that I’m seriously starting to love.
“Oh, I get it … and it was so important that you had to store her number on your phone?” I ask harshly.
He shrugs and says, “What’s so important about that?”
I leap to my feet and react violently. “What the hell do you mean, what does it matter? It’s fucking important, that’s what it is!”
He shrugs again and this time his expression has changed. “OK, we’ve bumped into each other in the bar a couple of times, we’ve had a sandwich together … nothing more.”
“I bet! Nothing more? What else would you have wanted? A sandwich and that’s that? In fact I don’t really see why you’d have wanted to share it with her,” I say, looking into his eyes, aware that mine are exploding from their sockets.