He didn’t know which was worse: the lie or the truth.
B held her hand. He didn’t let go.
For three weeks, B courted Ester the only way he knew how: through footnotes. He left her letters under her door that were ninety percent citations and ten percent apology. He quoted Borges on infinity and Sontag on photography, hoping she would mistake his fear of intimacy for intellectual depth. para kay b
“I think I’m dying,” he said.
Ester laughed—that cracked-bell laugh. “What did it say?” He didn’t know which was worse: the lie or the truth
He didn’t know which was worse: the lie or the truth.
B held her hand. He didn’t let go.
For three weeks, B courted Ester the only way he knew how: through footnotes. He left her letters under her door that were ninety percent citations and ten percent apology. He quoted Borges on infinity and Sontag on photography, hoping she would mistake his fear of intimacy for intellectual depth.
“I think I’m dying,” he said.
Ester laughed—that cracked-bell laugh. “What did it say?”