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.
She said she’d visited my father’s grave and told him my news. He was, I understand, thrilled by it.
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 danced with Alberto, I don’t know why, the joy and sadness of the occasion, I suppose.
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 discover that doing nothing is more fun than having nothing to do
She looked disgusted, as if I’d admitted to a taste for rat, or beetroot, or something.