We are not quite novels. We are not quite short stories. In the end, we are collected works
Gabrielle ZevinSpeak up,' says Myrna who has a fuzzy white caterpillar of a moustache. 'My hearing's not so good.' 'I WAS SHOT IN THE HEAD.' Liz turns to Thandi. 'I thought you said you didn't remember how you got the hole in your head.' Thandi apologizes. 'I just remembered.' 'Shot in the head!' Florence-scratchy-voice says. 'Oy, that's rough.' 'Aw, it's nothing special. Happens pretty regularly where I'm from,' Thandi says. 'WHAT?' asks Myrna with the moustache. 'Say it toward my left ear, that's the good one.' 'I SAID, "IT'S NOTHING SPECIAL,"' Thandi yells/
Gabrielle ZevinOur moment had passed somehow. I was different. He was, too. Without our โmadnessโ to unite us, there wasnโt anything much there. Or maybe too much had happened in too short a time. Itโs like when you take a trip with someone you donโt know very well. Sometimes you can get very close very quickly, but then after the trip is over, you realise all that was a false sort of closeness. An intimacy based on the trip more than the travellers, if that makes any sense.
Gabrielle Zevin