S. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. He bent to her hand, and she slipped off the ring and gave it to him to examine. ‘Well?’ he uttered between heavy breaths. “Ohmigod, Katy, you fucking killed her!” A trio of girls sniggered. Tell me I haven’t heard. She stopped eating.
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