“Not just anyone can marry into our family,” his father had interrupted one of the holes he was digging with these words, and he lit a cigarette, something he had never done before and never did again. “But we can marry into any family… if they want us,” he inhaled the smoke and looked at the sky. “It’s a good day, they’ll bury her under the sun…”
They were going to bury a beautiful woman. Another accident. The butter that had been bubbling on the fire, supposedly turning to molten fat, had spilled all over her… Her husband, they said, had been in the next room… Before that, they said, he had heard that in the months of his absence, someone else had come and gone to their house. But because he had been in the next room, the butter must have spilled by itself, burning through meat and bone
