You forget a lot of things as the days unspool.
People are not as close as they once were, I thought he said.
Do not walk away from this burgeoning hope of heat and dryness.
If there is one thing he has learned in all his years of diving and grifting, it is that women love a man with a secret wound.
Roads now spread like veins from farm to farm, ferrying cars to every corner of the island while our horses grow rust in the wind.
Handing me the rope, she suggested I call him Winter, a reminder of what he’d endured.
“The Shokunin does not speak of his past.”
And the painful inadequacy of this hangs in the car, the pretense that this briefest of visits home will provide some solution, some respite for one or other of them.
But we aren’t that gullible. We can tell a fake.
Here is my space, and Mona has finally stepped into it.