He’d been going on about the architect and some building in Berlin, but Elin was searching for Rudi’s smile in the dark, no longer visible; she’d always loved his full red lips, the way they reminded her, oddly, yet erotically, of Ingrid Bergman’s, surrounding the most beautiful white teeth she’d ever seen. His mouth always so fresh and clean, strangely savory, and this must have been what she was imagining when she’d finally fallen asleep. Now she lay in the grass thinking of all the lies inside Rudi’s mouth, like a black swarm of flies feeding off his tongue.
