Dust
Xanthe left me. I found out her new address and returned the kettle she had left behind. The next day I took her a book she had lent me. I found a box of hairgrips, and delivered one each day. If she wasn’t home I would post it with a long letter explaining how I had found it on the floor. When I had returned them all, I took her, on the tip of my finger, a tiny ball of dust. ‘I remember seeing it fall from your dress one afternoon,’ I said. ‘The pretty one, with the flowers on it'.
Anthropology and a hundred other stories :: Dan Rhodes
...nem sabe o bem que lhe fazia.
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bonito
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