CHAPTER 13
I was alone, and with a terrible hangover. The kind of desperate, dried-out, after-drink sadness that lingers in the corners of your eyes, the folds of your armpits and behind your knees, that yields to nothing but sleeping the whole day away. I felt it immediately: the memory, the embarrassment and the pleasure. I knew he wasn’t there but turned my head sideways to look. I closed my eyes and slept until the sun took the hint and moved elsewhere.
Much later, I stood in the kitchen, my ragged robe knotted tightly around my waist, my secret running in an imaginary stream down my inner thigh. I shakily poured tea into my favourite mug, trying to protect myself with familiar comforts while ducking from the shadow of my betrayal. I slunk around the house. Put my fingers to picture
