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31 Red Curry The waiter from Bangkok brings me fish and vegetables smothered in coriander and cayenne. Beside the half-moon windows you feign polite interest over a cup of tea, your free Saturday offered up to my passion for searing food. As you talk of work and our children, I count off the links in my watch like the annular rings of marriage. The blue wall behind you rises up like a great expanse of water your wavering shadow adheres to, and I face two people, the transparent one overlapping the man in the starched white shirt. My throat burns. “I can’t describe it,” I say, a forkful of fish, stained red, my message carrier. I want to tell you about a dream where our silence caused my fall from a cliff, how, refusing your help, I dug my fingers into stone to bring myself back to you. What are we trapped in, afraid to speak to one another? I swallow the fire in my mouth. Carefully, we breathe the slow tides in and out, the once silverskinned fish between us reduced now to its narrow spine. Young_FinalTextRev.indb 31 7/22/19 1:00 PM ...


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Related ISBN
MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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