Margaret Atwood

But some people can't tell where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling.

She's turned half towards him, and smiling, in a way she can't remember smiling at anyone since

The hot breeze stirs the leaves, light falls through, there's pollen all around her, a golden cloud. Dust, really

He doesn't put his arm around her. He knows she wants him to. She expects it; she feels the touch in advance, as birds feel shadow.

He smoothes her forehead, runs a finger along her cheek. You shouldn't worship me, he says. I don't have the only cock in the world. Some day you'll find that out.

It's not a question of that, she says. Anyway I don't worship you. Already he's pushing her away, into the future.

Hold on a minute. You agreed to the sacrificial virgins, you put them on the menu. I'm only following orders. What's your objection-the wardrobe? Too much tulle?

Let's not fight, she says. She feels she's about to cry, clenches her hands to stop.

. He gave his version of a smile-a thin crack in his face, like mud drying-

Laid out in front of me are a cup of tea, an apple cut into quarters, and a pad of paper with blue lines on it, like men's pyjamas once.

and my fingernails to sprout into claws, while candle wax drips onto the carpet. But long ago I made a choice between classicism and romanticism. I prefer to be upright and contained-an urn in daylight.

And Laura, as much as she is anywhere. Her essence.

Meat dust.