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Kindle Notes & Highlights
Underneath the starched antiseptic tang of the hospital there is a sour, queer scent, like something left too long in the dark.
Under the table, the cat weaves invisibly through ankles and chair legs, fur sleeking against their shins.
Part of her is certain he will call, part is certain he won’t.
It is double biology on a Thursday afternoon and the sun is angled high, pouring in through the blindless glass like heated syrup.
The dehumidifiers coughed and hummed from the corners, digesting the wet, mouldering heat of the rainy season.
Motherhood is a clear, prescribed thing. Those nine months you spend with another being pocketed inside you are a lifelong, unwritten contract that can’t ever be cancelled. But fatherhood is nebulous, undefined, and can be almost nothing, a mere tailed cell shot out into the void.
He is filling his hands with her hair and she finds that he touches her as if he understands her skin’s Braille.
Why is it women have an innate ability to cut to the chase? To sniff out the germ of a situation? How do they do it?
