We eat oranges on the train. I had been dreaming of meat, a roast with a thick brown sauce, instead of the thin juice that filled my cheeks as my teeth ground into the cellophane pulp.
We had not planned to leave so soon. There was a fight. Predictable for us, perhaps, but we had expected the country to fold over us, like a tissue over phlegm, and conceal our rotten parts; to present us, to Europe, to ourselves, as downy snow virgins.
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