He was the colour of honey, a few freckles across his shoulders, his pale-pink nipples catching the sunlight.
Finally, I sat in the barber’s chair. “Not too short,” I said. “You want me to cut your eyebrows?” he asked.
Nathan imagines they’d be caught and, besides, the man may be a serial killer, so suggests the cruising park behind the Hilton instead. Much safer.
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.
A man at another table pointed at me, his hand trembling, and said, “Itzak Stern sat there.”
Elli leaned closer, his face serious, and told me something surprising. At least, I was taken by surprise.