She looked disgusted, as if I’d admitted to a taste for rat, or beetroot, or something.
I ask if there’s anything that connects us, the new immigrants. ‘We didn’t fit in at home?’ says Megan, in that way that makes statements sound like questions.
Everyone’s eyes were on it, their heads moving with it like at a tennis match.
Rainbow flags everywhere; hanging from balconies, flying from lampposts, in café windows. If this isn’t the gayest city in the world it is, at least, trying to be.
We may be the definition of rootless cosmopolitans, citizens of the world.
Rufina’s face changes colour like a cuttlefish, pink to red to white. A tear runs down her cheek.
She looks behind her, as if to remind everyone of something, and flicks her hair, like a pony flicks its mane.