What I missed, every day, yearned for, actually, was a British-style pork sausage. I dreamt of them. At least I think it was sausages I saw in my dreams.
He was the colour of honey, a few freckles across his shoulders, his pale-pink nipples catching the sunlight.
Nathan, whose greatest fear is that he’ll develop a resistance to Botox, returned from Frankfurt with the face of an inexpressive eight year old.
The man said, ‘I hate Jews.’ Alvin said ‘Ok’, and continued showing the property…
She uses French butter to make croissants, and pulls a face at the idea of Israeli butter. Less fat, she tells me.
He shows me the top of his tattoo, which is of a large feather. It’s well drawn, actually. It starts at the small of his back and, I don’t really want to imagine, sweeps downwards.
Rufina’s face changes colour like a cuttlefish, pink to red to white. A tear runs down her cheek.