·
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
·
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…
·
The dark-eyed pick pockets were children really, but old enough for you to shout at them and slap at the hand you felt as it reached inside the bag on your shoulder. It was a stupid thing to do. Your own fault. They are trained to spot the opportunity and there you were, imagining you’re…
·
Reason eludes her, replaced, it seems, with a metaphor that’s not her own. She hears Bowie singing, his voice low and strangely soothing. He’s in a parking garage in Berlin, crashing his car over and over and over again, and she thinks, ‘Yeah, that’s exactly how I feel.’
·
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.
