Читать книгу The Lost Properties of Love - Sophie Ratcliffe - Страница 13

— 2005 —

A hot August morning and we lay on top of the bedsheets in a pile of body. You got up to take a call and I looked at my legs on the whiteness.

Summer in the city.

Outside the window, a bird settled on the nearby guttering. It was as free as a bird.

Double portraits are always the hardest, you said as you walked back in. The lens has to settle for something. It has to choose one thing or another. An eye. A coat button. A parakeet.