Other times she looks at me with an appetite that is romantic but wrong: Curious, consumptive … anthropological? As though she were peering at a moth pinned to a cork-board, shivering, still very much alive. As though she were laying it on her warm tongue, letting it dissolve there. It’s her American showing: rolling into my village in a military tank, tossing at my mother’s feet three-quarters of an apple she has only peeled with her teeth.
