Vera said, for everyone to hear, ‘Jews want money, of course,’ and laughed.
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.