It is the feeling of drowning in a big hot open gutter, of crawling inside an undressed, unstanched wound that has never been cauterized. Bing Bing, his face half-submerged in shadow, tells me, One day you’ll want to return permanently. That would be terrible, I say, laughing. I would be henpecked to death by all of my uncles. I begin imagining it: The first uncle would say, When are you getting married? The second uncle would say, What are you looking
