So there we were again, in that little Japanese place near Martin’s Square. Kenan orders sushi for both of us. He asks me if this is OK.
“Of course,” I say. What am I supposed to say?
Kenan wears a gold chain around his neck as wide as a baby’s finger. He tells me about his wife, Christina—how she doesn’t understand him—as he slides his fingers along the back of my wrist.
When we leave the restaurant, the silky air of the June night envelops my bare shoulders like a veil. My sandals click against the pavement.
“We will get coffee,” Kenan announces as we approach a café. White bistro tables line the sidewalk.
His hand slips beneath my dress as he tosses back his espresso.
Christina makes him coffee like this he tells me. He drinks it at all hours. I have no idea how he sleeps.
No comments:
Post a Comment