“I just want nice things. Things my friends have—clothes and cars and furniture. I lie—lie to them when we speak about shopping and interior and—and God!”
An impending sob hides in her roaming, trembling eyes—he never understood how eyes could tremble so—and an earthquake of the hand induces shuddering tea, encapsulated by its cup.
He turns towards the cityscape where thousands of souls roam, like her eyes, shopping bags in hand, rushed faces equipped, moving from point A to point B in an inconceivable manner.
As tears stroke her cheeks he struggles to empathize, but can’t.