Behind him, she can see the reflected moon, the wide and languorous shores of darkness surrounding it, broken only by pinpricks of diffused light. What she sees — solitary glimmerings in the distance — are stars still in the past. In the millions of miles between them and her, time has aged, transformed from past to present.
The pub has not yet begun to overflow when F and K arrive. It is quite small, lit by dull lights like old, folded sunsets and full of stumbling bodies, all fluttering in circles on an invisible, drunken carousel that floats haltingly past the bar (an oaken, straight line pockmarked with rings and stars of wine and whiskey) and through a careful pattern of wooden tables and chairs
And then, suddenly, at 13, the parents left us to our own devices, and the invitations grew scarce, shriveled like raisins. I was invited to some things — not all, never all — at first. I smuggled abandoned friends, hidden in pockets and backpacks, across gates with me; they smuggled me.
It is a fundamental aspect of the human condition, a longing for the past, for a sense of belonging so primordial that it predates language.