A galaxy of cream unribbons in my coffee cup, and the background chatter pulls into focus.
She is still at the sink. Her neck is still an oasis of soft calm in this sandblasted world.
Outside is still oven-hot, but a dark roof of cloud is ready to buckle under the weight of rain at any moment. The pedestrians waiting on the island in the middle of Kita Street sense it. The two young women taking in the sandwich board outside Nero's Pizza Emporium sense it. The battalions of the elderly sense it. Hemlock, nightingales, E minor--thunnnnnnnnnder! Belly-flopping thunnnnnnnnnder, twanging a loose bass.
I wish somebody would scream. Something is twitching in the corner of my mouth--a plump hand with an engagement ring.
From a novel, Number 9 Dream. David Mitchell.
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