Each desert character had a longer, wilder story than the last. “It’s the goddamn Canterbury Tales out here,” she said.
The day just boiled away. They took their souvenirs and neatly packed them into a half dozen suitcases. Then they dialed the embassy.
She fixated on the paper weight. It was the shape of a human heart. If she hit him with it, right in the temple, would it be enough to kill him? She hesitated.
There was a disquieting variation of light coming under the door. And a rippling sound. But the worst thing was the constant deja vu.
At midnight, looking over the statement in an office lit by a single lamp, he heard her approaching in the hall, shoes click-clacking with a lack of variation that felt threatening.
She handed him what he thought was a pack of cigarettes. Inside all he found were desiccated spiders.
Susan kicked a pile of snow over the exposed leg. “In spring it’ll be a surprise for someone, think of it that way. By then the Arabs will have fixed everything.”
Rain speckled the windshield. They changed out of jumpsuits and into formal wear as efficiently as they could.
“The cold, rational approach has been vilified–but if we’re going to save ourselves, passion is the last thing we should accept,” she said.
Blinky was told to make a rye and water, but he surreptitiously delivered a kōan that produced instant enlightenment.
“Men in power are dangerous,” she said, “their world view is built on violent penetration.”
They drove up to the estate, their car dented and smoking. They set their watches forward one hour. Cleaning the roof would have to wait.
“Mathematically speaking,” she said, “it’s better to ask for permission than to ask for forgiveness.”
The nearby crows wouldn’t shut up. The cawing matched the relentless rhythm of their own senseless argument.
It was impossible to unzip the bag with all that hair tangled in the teeth.