She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. She gave her a wink when John had turned to ask Mark if Lucy could ride home with them. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. He jumps the words out of your mouth; he takes hold of what you have to say before you have had time to express it properly. He kissed her once inside the car. A moistened velvet touch found her tongue. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. I just wanted a breath of air.
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