Читать книгу Now Silence - Tori Warner Shepard - Страница 16

She fled the next day after a breakfast of eggs and ham. Coffee but no tea. No milk. No sugar. Even the blacktop leading back to Highway One, the North-South road, looked hopeful in spite of the wind from the Atlantic. Over the dreary next days the few motels she stayed in smelled like Cuban whorehouses. Sweat and sperm on the damp sheets, damp because everything was damp where the heavy air sank, and she was sure even the angels wept, making the humidity worse. How did she know what a Cuban whorehouse smelled like? It smelled like this.