—THERE'S— A— What she was doing was beautiful, but Fat Gandhi wasn't looking at her, or listening. His jaw still hung dead. Agnes's voice and song had brought the aunties back into the tent. But Gandhi didn't notice or care. He was in love. With Gilbert. Gandhi knew the line: homosexuality was an abomination. He'd known it since he'd seen the light ten years ago, and quickly realised that his loud embrace of Christianity was very good for business. It bored most people, and frightened quite a few, but, even so, Gandhi's weird faith had made him suddenly respectable. Here was a man who could be trusted, a man who took the world seriously. So, he took it for what it was: golf without the exercise. Agnes wasn't shaking too badly now. She loved the words, how they broke and reassembled. SOME–WHERE. Her eyes were still shut, but she knew they were all looking as she told them there was a place for them, somewhere a place for them. Gandhi hadn't really looked at a man since. But here he was, in love again.
