“The heat is pressing in on us; a solid, slippery thing. I feel like I could cut it with a butter knife. The noise, rich smells and visual abundance of the souk have blurred into irrelevance because I am wholly focused on Spike and his distress.”
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“The unpredictability of what might happen next terrified me. He was still and quiet, considering his next move. He had a coiled energy and I could sense he was poised to run. He would leave soon. But he wanted more from me.”
“The preoccupation has peaked but at its worst it felt like heinous topics were all he could talk about. We were assailed by emotive words repeated over and over again: stab, knife, arson, suicide. Each word carried a charge which jumped from him to me, like little electric shocks.”
“…Ben went for a walk along the beach and was gone for so long that I began imagining the catastrophes? A road accident, a drowning. Quarter hours passed in which I tried to convince myself I was relaxing when in reality my heart had crept up to pulse in my throat…”
“Coronavirus cast its shadow over our chalk-edged island. WhatsApp groups thrummed with digital missives speculating about an Italian-style lockdown and my heart sank. Of all the Italian-style things I enjoy (coffee, ice cream, salad dressing), stringent lockdown measures are way down the list.”
“Her presence seemed a complication. I felt embarrassed and undignified as I struggled to keep my son from launching himself into the road and taking handfuls of my scalp with him. Now I had to worry about whether my knickers were on show.”