Читать книгу Justine - Iben Mondrup - Страница 12

She’s such an ass. No. Not an ass. She’s the hole. The asshole. No, that’s way too kind. A shit. The shit that comes from the asshole, that’s her. Schluck, she hits the floor, splat, and, god, what a stench.

Maybe she’s back now? She’s obviously been at work in the herb garden. There are the tools leaned up against the side of the house. The straw hat hangs provocatively on the pitchfork and wants to lift off in the breeze, but it’s still here. Vita really is no place at all.

She lives in the Society’s sole brick house and that amuses her. To be suburban amid sub-urbanites.

I piss on the potatoes outside the bedroom window. That’ll make them stink.

She hasn’t put the extra key back in its usual place beneath the pot on the steps. I’ll check again. Nope. She’d already removed the key the day after we quit. She said that’s what happens when someone splits up. What a shitty thing to say.

“We’re not splitting up,” I said. “When you split up, it’s much more official.”

At that point she took the key.

“Is that official enough for you?” she asked.

One might’ve expected her to make an exception in this type of situation. Nope. Her key is still in my pocket, and there’s also one to Ane’s studio. They jingle.

I look through the kitchen window at a box on the kitchen counter. Green tops stick out. It’s Thursday and she’s obviously not been digging in the garden. Today she’s at the studio minding the sensitive casting process, as she calls it. Anything can go wrong at this point. Vita is a sculptor. With a large sculpture at the Kastrup Airport outside terminal three. She entices everyone. She rolls out distance like a carpet that can’t be stepped on.