He rubs his face. The clouds are wispy and streaky, as though painted with a dry brush, the lawn dark and thick. Juliette brings him coffee in a large bowl, dusted with chocolate powder and thick slices of hot bread with melted butter and fragrant strawberry jam. Max lifts a piece of toast to his mouth, bites and chews. Max is used to avoiding thoughts and feelings that do not serve him; that make him feel uncomfortable. The judgements of others, the unsettling sense he might be drinking too much. Thoughts of his mother, his father, his childhood. Grahame Park. All of that. There is a place, like a black hole, that he tips it all into. It’s deep and vast. It is a sinkhole. But right now last night’s memories shower him in tiny, disjointed pieces. Snake hair, Helen’s hand, grass against his face, his lips. Shame sloshes over him. Max watches Sophie at the edge of the garden. She has brushed her hair and put on a bit of makeup; or at least Max assumes so; it’s hard to tell from where he is.
