She killed more bees, just so she could fill the tiny bee graves she’d dug.
She danced with Alberto, I don’t know why, the joy and sadness of the occasion, I suppose.
She lies on a rug with Alberto, they are playful with each other, then nap, their bodies touching, like incestuous twins.
This is a nation of shruggers, it is the answer given to many questions…
She looked disgusted, as if I’d admitted to a taste for rat, or beetroot, or something.
He carries, at all times, a beautiful modern edition of The Art of War, which he reads during the break.
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.