White Teeth

by Zadie Smith

Mo’s head sprang back through the window like a malicious cuckoo from a Swiss clock. “He’s gassing himself, Abba.” “What?” Arshad shrugged. “I shouted through the car window and told the guy to move on and he says, ‘I am gassing myself, leave me alone.’ Like that.” “No one gasses himself on my property,” Mo snapped as he marched downstairs. “We are not licensed.” Once in the street, Mo advanced upon Archie’s car, pulled out the towels that were sealing the gap in the driver’s window, and pushed it down five inches with brute, bullish force. “Do you hear that, mister? We’re not licensed for suicides around here. This place halal. Kosher, understand? If you’re going to die round here, my friend, I’m afraid you’ve got to be thoroughly bled first.”

the wicked lie, that the past is always tense and the future, perfect.