It was then that my gaze happened to fall on the bookcase, on the gap there, where the old paperback of "Nine Stories" had fallen flat. "Where's the thing?" I said.
"What thing?"
"The mesh. My mesh."
She shrugged. "I tossed it."
"Tossed it? Where? What do you mean?"
In the next moment I was in the kitchen, flipping open the lid of the trash can, only to find it empty. "You mean outside?" I shouted. "In the dumpster?"
When I came thundering back into the room, she still hadn't moved. "Jesus, what were you thinking? That was mine. I wanted that. I wanted to keep it."
Her lips barely moved. "It was dirty.

T. Coraghessan Boyle

Tag: shaming dysfunctional-relationships broken-homes passive-aggression

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... I think it's designed to flower open like a Chocolate Orange."
Me and Lesley then had to explain Terry's Chocolate Orange to Nightingale.
"Not unlike a practitioner's hand opening to reveal a werelight," said Nightingale.
"Not unlike at all," I said. Yeah, exactly like that I thought.

Ben Aaronovitch

Tag: rivers-of-london broken-homes ben-aaronovitch

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