I have measured out my life in expensive hotels, it seems, and I gauge my tan in types of honey. I am now millefiori, and aspire to castagna.
She looked disgusted, as if I’d admitted to a taste for rat, or beetroot, or something.
Everyone’s eyes were on it, their heads moving with it like at a tennis match.
Rufina’s face changes colour like a cuttlefish, pink to red to white. A tear runs down her cheek.