From three to five we are all too much in the sun, and less than kin, facing west in the waning day and listening to our collective dermis crisp slightly in the slanting ultraviolet. One by one, brittle-seeming people stand and recount tales and anecdotes, reckon lines of descent and relation.
At one end of the gathering, overheard, one man mentions a friend who hadn't found out until today, and who was all but certain that it had been a joke. Would have been just like him, really.
Gerast áskrifandi að:
Birta ummæli (Atom)
Engin ummæli:
Skrifa ummæli