</p>I am the horizon you ride towards, the thing you can never lasso</p> I am also what surrounds you: my brain scattered with your tincans, bones, e… - Margaret Atwood
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</p>I am the horizon you ride towards, the thing you can never lasso</p> I am also what surrounds you: my brain scattered with your tincans, bones, empty shells, the litter of your invasions. I am the space you desecrate as you pass through.
But in the closeness of the sewing room, Simon can smell her as well as look at her. He tries to pay no attention but her scent is a distracting undercurrent. She smells like smoke; smoke, and laundry soap, and the salt from her skin; and she smells of the skin itself, with its undertone of dampness, fullness, ripeness - what? Ferns and mushrooms; fruits crushed and fermenting.
