2.18
Later, after snacking on cheese and some sticks of celery that had been languishing in the crisper all week, Yvette sat down on the sofa. Her earlier anticipation stabbed by her mother’s call and replaced with doubt, and she read differently his hesitation on the beach, his silence in the car. He wasn’t going to call.
She flicked through her sketches. Then she toyed with her tin pencil box. Stamped on the lid, between a capitalised ‘Mars’ and a lower case ‘Staedtler’ was a cameo of a Roman soldier in profile. Apparently the manufacturers wanted to impart the message that their pencils were all it took to conquer a drawing. The hinges squeaked as she opened the lid. Perhaps this once that Roman figure would be right.
The evening wore on. A line here, some shading there, crosshatchin
