She detected that the young officer’s shoulders tensed whenever she moved in the back of his 94 car. You go home and live on the G. Her head swam. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love.
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