As she walks through the warm morning breeze, Blandine fantasizes about someone emailing her the article about Pearl. The person would say: Reminded me of you. In the fantasy, the person knows Blandine better than she knows herself, and their message sinks through her skin like a poem, asserting its truth before revealing its meaning. It is not a normal fantasy, she understands. But who could call “normal” good, anymore? Who could call it anything?
