He was the colour of honey, a few freckles across his shoulders, his pale-pink nipples catching the sunlight.
At the launderette, an elderly man took off his trousers, put them into the dryer without washing them. He sat on a chair and offered me a cigarette.
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.
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.
I ask if there’s anything that connects us, the new immigrants. ‘We didn’t fit in at home?’ says Megan, in that way that makes statements sound like questions.
I go to the bank to check money has been transferred and to convert it into shekels. My rent won’t be paid without it. This simple job took nearly three anxious weeks last month, but has gone more smoothly this time. I’m thrilled to learn the pound has strengthened by a minuscule amount since I… Continue reading Nathan loves Alberto loves Rufina