Truth, Lies, Dreams
I sit in a large overstuffed armchair, my leg draped over one arm, my hand draped over the other, and I graze my fingertips against the cool glowing dark skin of her shoulders.
She is young, slender, her hair cropped in short shiny Afro curls. I hesitate to touch her.
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We are in a large federal building, in a corridor, it feels menacing, before we are singled out and taken to the waiting room. As we enter, I see that the room is full, with people sat on two lines of plastic chairs on opposite walls, facing each other.
We take our place, and are waiting for a long time until finally a woman comes over to our seats. She singles me out as the spy and with my eyes closed she presses a flashlight against one of my eyelids. Are they trying to read my thoughts?
The woman says, you will have to come with me so that we can administer a bruising.
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Staying at a château adjacent to the Lac Leman, gold trim and chandeliers.
We are having a party, lots of wine, beer, on the TVs are football games. England is playing Portugal, and across the front of the blue and white shirts of the England team is written “DOWNING”. The Portuguese also have a name.
Another crowd, of Americans this time, shows up. I don’t know this crowd, but one of them comes over, points to a TV.
“Who’s playing?”
“Portugal,” I reply.
But he says, “No, it’s Turkey.” And close up, I see he’s right.
I go over to a table to get more alcohol.
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A woman spells out her name clearly but in a whisper, before she writes it down in block capitals: E-L-S-P-E-T-H.