The cafe is emphatically Parisian: white chairs, small round tables, and old French men drinking espressos as they admire women in cotton dresses swirling past. The trees above Susie cast filigreed tablecloths of shadow. The air is abundant with the smells of spring, and the laughter of tourists. The gravel pathways of the Tuilerie...
The past sits at the end of the bed like an albatross. It is a black, oily-feathered and skeletal thing, its body collapsed in death. Albatrosses are white. This one is a photographic negative. One pale eye follows Matt’s every movement. The eye is Lucy’s. ...
The past sits at the end of the bed like an albatross. It is a black, oily-feathered and skeletal thing, its body collapsed in death.
Albatrosses are white.
This one is a photographic negative.
One pale eye follows Matt’s every movement. The eye is Lucy’s. ...