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She knows, now, absolutely, hearing the white noise that is London, that Damien’s theory of jet lag is correct: that her mortal soul is leagues behind her, being reeled in on some ghostly umbilical down the vanished wake of the plane that brought her here, hundreds of thousands of feet above the Atlantic. Souls can’t move that quickly, and are left behind, and must be awaited, upon arrival, like lost luggage.
“He took a duck in the face at two hundred and fifty knots,”
We have no future because our present is too volatile.”
“Because he pretends to be better at what he does than he is. I prefer people who are better at what they do than they think they are.”
