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After, and she was conscious of there always being an ‘after’, she lay on the familiar chaise longue and regarded the man who was now she supposed, her lover. He was crouched somewhat inelegantly if attentively by her side. His head was against her hip and one hand covered her breast. His painter’s shirt obscured his unclad loins for which for some reason she was glad. ‘So this was another man’ she thought without reaching any comparative conclusions.
She ruffled Pascal’s hair. ‘Thank you’ she said in English, deciding not to add ‘that was very nice’ on the grounds of its banality and insufficient enthusiasm.
Errors of Judgement, Bruce Abrahams