I had forgotten to eat. I bought a roast chicken, cooked just that afternoon and warmed under lights; a hunk of hard Gruyère; celery and carrots; hummus; freshly baked, soft-in-the-middle chocolate-chip cookies; and a slice of blueberry pie. I had those Danish girls in mind when I detoured for a bottle of Argentinian Malbec. I imagined I’d somehow invite the girls to my building, lead them into my garden with wineglasses overflowing, and tell what I planned on planting, daisies, hydrangeas, and Bermuda freesia, even if freesia would not survive here. Yes, I felt magnanimous, and when I made it home and laid my groceries out on the table, I ripped a leg off the chicken and ate it as if I were an amiable giant with an amiable giant’s appetite. The warm oil of the dark meat slipped down my throat and gave me more license, breaking open a current of thrilling prerogatives. Yes, men like Mr. Coughlan need more air. Denmark in May or early June. How long had it been since I’d traveled or taken a photo?
What do You think about The Affairs Of Others: A Novel?
