I have a memory of a group of us dancing on a pontoon on the lake one Friday night that I think about if ever I need to reduce my blood pressure.
“You’re in the land of Zion,” now, he shouted, “you’re in the land of the Jews!” He was obviously a lunatic, but I didn’t want to back down.
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.