Summer House With Swimming Pool: A Novel - Plot & Excerpts
Whether I would have been in time. I added and subtracted the minutes, but never really found a clear answer. It was like after you’ve made some remark to someone. A terrible remark. At least that’s what you think: that it was terrible. You lie awake all night, running back through the conversation. But as the hours pass, the words become increasingly vague. The next day you summon up all your courage. Did I say something terrible to you last night? you ask. What on earth are you talking about? is the reply. The fact is that it took me fifteen minutes to bring the vodka girl back to her senses. I took her pulse, put my ear to her breast to hear whether she perhaps had fluid (vodka!) in her lungs. Between her breasts, I should say. It was a matter of life and death—I knew that from bitter experience. Girls her size—she couldn’t have weighed more than eighty-five pounds, I noted later when I lifted her from the sand—can die almost immediately from an alcohol overdose. The body doesn’t know where to put all that liquor.
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