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Show 244 "Distracted?" "I forget things. Last week Julia's birthday. This morning I forgot to shave, to sugar my coffee. And I've started having dreams." "I'm sorry," she said. "It's not your fault." "It's not?" she said. "You made it sound like it was, like it was my fault." "I'm sorry," he said. It would get dark fast now, and the desert air would cool quickly. And it would become surprisingly damp, as though the shimmering day died with the passing of the sun and fell, cold and wet and heavy, to the sand. The Arabs would lay out plastic sheets to catch the moisture. Philip studied Molly's face. For a moment it seemed she might cry. "I didn't want it to end like this," she said. Philip wished he hadn't stopped smoking; he had nothing to do with his hands or mouth. He watched as Molly's lips parted, as though to speak again, then watched as instead she licked them. If there were more words, they were not yet formed. He stared at her, saw white. She blinked Nothing but white. He was waiting. What to do? He checked the chicken. The outer layer of fat on the lamb was black, charred. The pink meat inside would be nearly done . . . he hated the waiting. If there were more words, they were buried deep in Molly's |
