In the Rose Hill
sports village, Abigail was sitting on the grass smoking a silent cigarette and
getting towards the end of Sharp Objects
by Gillian Flynn.
As I approached, quietly
as I only could, she turned around and looked up at me. There was a certain
deafness in her eyes, charmed and pretty in the setting sun, and I realised
that for a few seconds, maybe minutes, I would be a character in her book.
I confessed. She smiled.
