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The guard at the Leopold Museum does not trust you. He follows you around the room and hovers in the corner, watching as you make your way to the bench and position yourself in front of the painting. It’s his job, you understand that, but all the same, you have to suppress the urge to
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On a special occasion, or sometimes just because the mood takes you, make linguine alla vongole. Stand over the simmering stove and try to get back to that summer on Capri. The slurp and sip as you ate. The clack of shells on porcelain. Oil and garlic oozing from your pores for days. You could…
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It’s as if a fine veil has fallen over his eyes, separating him from the scene in front of him, leaving him aware of his isolation, aware that this little scene is only something he can look upon. He cannot walk into that kitchen and take his place at the table.
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The memories feel like glimpses. Vague, snatched moments that unravel, so that the pattern of the thing – the form and shape you would call a life, she supposes – disappears. All she’s left with is a string of unconnected events. Not even that. Just a sound. Just the sound of him.
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Seeing her, one of the horses returned her gaze, as if all it needed to do to understand her was look her in the eye. They stared at one another for a moment, until the deep black of its eye made her shiver and turn away
