in their burrows.
“Rossetti went mad with grief,” says Gabriel. “He decided never to write poetry again. Perhaps he thought he wouldn’t be able to. He simply gave up. And then he buried everything he had ever written along with Elizabeth, placed it inside her coffin …”
He smiles briefly.
“And then he changed his mind … and dug up her grave one night.”
“What?”
Gabriel nods, looking very pleased with himself.
“It was several months after the burial, but when they opened her coffin she was still just as beautiful as when she died, her skin just as white and smooth, and her hair … You know that hair can carry on growing after death? She was lying there completely surrounded by hair, it was kind of … everywhere, filling the whole coffin, spilling out when they removed the lid, tumbling over the sides.”
I shake my head.
“That can’t possibly be true,” I say, looking inquiringly at him, but his expression is serious, he holds my gaze.
“Yes, it is. It’s true.”
“It’s just a story,” I mutter.
Gabriel says nothing, he looks at the plastic bag in the doorway.
“The trash smelled so disgusting,” I say quietly. “Something’s gone rotten in there.”
It takes an entire morning to read the rest of Gabriel’s manuscript. He has printed it out now, a thick bundle with text on both sides. The ending is missing, he still isn’t happy enough with it to show me. Perhaps he’s far too self-critical, I think, because the rest of the manuscript is good, I just can’t understand why he’s so dissatisfied with it. The story is set in a small town in the winter, the sense of desolation and the cold are so well captured that I almost feel frozen in spite of the fact that it’s 80 degrees outside.
He is cutting the grass in front of the greenhouse when I go out into the garden. It is cooler today, but it still seems like hard work. He smiles when he catches sight of me, but with a little hesitation in his smile, a hint of anxiety. I suddenly realize that perhaps my opinion actually does matter to him. I had thoughtthat he had let me read the manuscript as a favor to me, so that I would have something to do—the way you treat a student intern, finding a job they can’t possibly mess up, but when I see the tense expression on his face I realize that he will take notice of what I say.
He switches off the lawn mower.
“So,” he says with a smile that looks strained, “what’s the verdict?”
“It’s really good,” I say. “I can’t understand what you’re worried about.”
He smiles, raises his eyebrows as if he’s wondering if I’m really telling the truth, I nod.
“Really good,” I say again.
Suddenly he no longer seems to be listening. Instead I can see that his eyes are fixed on my fingers, my nails. I am wearing a darker polish now, a deep cerise, like the darkest of the trembling cosmos flowers in the garden, their petals look almost like nails. Stella’s nails are short and unpainted, she can’t have long nails, they break when she’s working, they split and tear, dirt and soil get stuck underneath them, it’s not practical, it’s impossible. I meet his gaze, his eyes are always dark but now they look almost black, just as they did in the car. He takes a step toward me, pulls me decisively toward him, and kisses me. I think to myself that I knew he was going to do it. I knew it when I chose the color, I knew he would like it, it’sverging on the vulgar, I was thinking of him while I was painting my nails, like a magic spell. Perhaps I have known even longer, ever since that first evening when he was standing in the kitchen, when he met my eyes and held them fast.
His kiss is equally hard this time, almost violent. When I push my hands under his T-shirt his breathing becomes louder, I gently run my nails down his back and his breathing turns into a muffled groan, it arouses me, I press myself against him. We are leaning against the end of the
“Rossetti went mad with grief,” says Gabriel. “He decided never to write poetry again. Perhaps he thought he wouldn’t be able to. He simply gave up. And then he buried everything he had ever written along with Elizabeth, placed it inside her coffin …”
He smiles briefly.
“And then he changed his mind … and dug up her grave one night.”
“What?”
Gabriel nods, looking very pleased with himself.
“It was several months after the burial, but when they opened her coffin she was still just as beautiful as when she died, her skin just as white and smooth, and her hair … You know that hair can carry on growing after death? She was lying there completely surrounded by hair, it was kind of … everywhere, filling the whole coffin, spilling out when they removed the lid, tumbling over the sides.”
I shake my head.
“That can’t possibly be true,” I say, looking inquiringly at him, but his expression is serious, he holds my gaze.
“Yes, it is. It’s true.”
“It’s just a story,” I mutter.
Gabriel says nothing, he looks at the plastic bag in the doorway.
“The trash smelled so disgusting,” I say quietly. “Something’s gone rotten in there.”
It takes an entire morning to read the rest of Gabriel’s manuscript. He has printed it out now, a thick bundle with text on both sides. The ending is missing, he still isn’t happy enough with it to show me. Perhaps he’s far too self-critical, I think, because the rest of the manuscript is good, I just can’t understand why he’s so dissatisfied with it. The story is set in a small town in the winter, the sense of desolation and the cold are so well captured that I almost feel frozen in spite of the fact that it’s 80 degrees outside.
He is cutting the grass in front of the greenhouse when I go out into the garden. It is cooler today, but it still seems like hard work. He smiles when he catches sight of me, but with a little hesitation in his smile, a hint of anxiety. I suddenly realize that perhaps my opinion actually does matter to him. I had thoughtthat he had let me read the manuscript as a favor to me, so that I would have something to do—the way you treat a student intern, finding a job they can’t possibly mess up, but when I see the tense expression on his face I realize that he will take notice of what I say.
He switches off the lawn mower.
“So,” he says with a smile that looks strained, “what’s the verdict?”
“It’s really good,” I say. “I can’t understand what you’re worried about.”
He smiles, raises his eyebrows as if he’s wondering if I’m really telling the truth, I nod.
“Really good,” I say again.
Suddenly he no longer seems to be listening. Instead I can see that his eyes are fixed on my fingers, my nails. I am wearing a darker polish now, a deep cerise, like the darkest of the trembling cosmos flowers in the garden, their petals look almost like nails. Stella’s nails are short and unpainted, she can’t have long nails, they break when she’s working, they split and tear, dirt and soil get stuck underneath them, it’s not practical, it’s impossible. I meet his gaze, his eyes are always dark but now they look almost black, just as they did in the car. He takes a step toward me, pulls me decisively toward him, and kisses me. I think to myself that I knew he was going to do it. I knew it when I chose the color, I knew he would like it, it’sverging on the vulgar, I was thinking of him while I was painting my nails, like a magic spell. Perhaps I have known even longer, ever since that first evening when he was standing in the kitchen, when he met my eyes and held them fast.
His kiss is equally hard this time, almost violent. When I push my hands under his T-shirt his breathing becomes louder, I gently run my nails down his back and his breathing turns into a muffled groan, it arouses me, I press myself against him. We are leaning against the end of the
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