I do want them. Her new husband had paid for a cadre of escorts back to Mantua. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. If only out of loyalty to co-education one has to do that. Too late now.
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