All this, of course, the confession, came later. First was the polite dancing around. The opening of doors. The drawing of chairs. The pushing of her hand into her purse when she tried to pay for the cab. The conversation: About her family. About his family. About books, which led to her quoting a line on the beauty of suffering from “The Thorn Birds,” a romantic novel she happens to be reading, that made him–for once–not be jealous of people who spoke English better than him, rather ache to hear her talk in that foreign tongue, so he could dream of kissing those lips [glossy, plump,
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