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He rose and wavered on woozy legs. He was operated by an inept puppeteer.
The eggs went down controversially. The coffee began to straighten the affair.
His days had been passing with no weight to them but he knew now that fate would soon arrest him.
Easily she was thirty. She was fair, complexion delicate. A slight crook to the nose. Eyes of wren’s-egg blue and one inclined to say hello to the other but not unattractively.
But whatever intimation you get about your life you got to follow it through and follow it through and follow it through because elsewise nothins gonna make sense ever again.
It was so cold their teeth whined.
After a brief mopesome interlude spent investigating the palms of her hands Polly Gillespie got snagged on a fiddle line and took to her feet again and tried out a dance step that was unusual in style and not like anybody had ever seen before. Her arms flailing banshee-like. Her neck swivelling. Eyes popping like a swamp frog’s. Little feet stomping off in this direction. Now that. Hips moving like ooh-la-la. Then she threw up right in the middle of it all. I don’t know if this one’ll catch on, Tom Rourke said.
The next morning came up corpse-grey and ominous. Winter by now was truly the sour landlord of the forest.
Love’s hard insistences are known even to the deathlorn, and perhaps especially so, with death being no more than the initiation of grief, and grief being no more than the mark of love’s inevitable loss.
But why look back is what she thinks. If she looked back she’d be eaten whole and alive by the past.
The past is not fixed and it is not certain and this much she has learned if nothin else. The past it changes all the while every minute you’re still breathing and how in fuck are you supposed to make sense of it all.
The wind blows and the past shifts again and rearranges. She can go there still when she wants to. She can see their fire burning in the forest dark. But hey it’s all such a long time ago now and really she doesn’t even think about it that often.
