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Dara felt badly, except she didn’t.
Right up there with the worst sentences ever written.
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Long summer nights, the click of the beetles, the soft grind of the cicadas, all those crickets rubbing their legs together, the low moan of the mosquitoes at the screen.
She even sexualises the insects.
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They could take these things inside them and emerge unscathed. Dangerous things, deadly things. They could take these things inside and remain untouched, immaculate. The same forever. Forever the same.
Why use ten words when you can use thirty?
Like sharing a room all those years, knowing even the smell of her tampons, stuffed in the trash.
Gross. So many passages like this (and worse) in the book.
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Dara led the way, vining them through the swarm, the air muzzy with that familiar studio mix of sweat, funk, hairspray, camphor oil, urine, vomit, this grand and stately theater completely contaminated by the Durant School of Dance in just six hours.
Sweatingly sweaty sweat.
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One day, she discovered him working long after she thought he’d left for the day. He was kneeling beside the tub, fondling its new gold taps with such delicacy.
Fondling the taps 😂.
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