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The world was beginning to flower into wounds. From the window of my office at the film studios I watched x seated in his car in the centre of the parking lot. Most of the staff were leaving for home, taking their cars one by one from the files around x's dusty limousine. He had driven into the studios one hour earlier. After Renata pointed him out to me I managed successfully to ignore him, but the steady subtraction of the other vehicles from the parking lot soon focused all my attention on this isolated car at the centre.

I tried to smile at her. The stitches in the laceration across my scalp, a second hairline an inch to the left of the original, made it difficult for me to change my expression. In the shaving mirror the nurses held up to my face I resembled an alarmed contortionist, startled by his own deviant anatomy.
´I'm sorry.´ I took her hand. ´I must look rather sunk in myself.´
´You're fine,´ she said. ´Absolutely. You're like someone's victim in Madame Tussaud's´
'Try come tomorrow.´
´I will.´ She touched my forhead, gingerly peering at the scalp wound. ´I'll bring some make-up for you. I imagine the only cosmetic attention given to the patients here is at Ashford Mortuary.´

Det går knappt en dag utan att jag tänker på Suzanne, hennes bröst med stora beiga glorior, hennes insjunkna mage, utspänd som ett tält mellan höfternas två punkter, hennes kön, och blotta minnet av det räcker för att röra vid mitt. I vilka havssnäckor är hennes elfenbenskotor innefattade idag?