Sunday, June 5
‘Que fuerte,’ says the girl at the end of the curving eyelashes. We gurgle mashed-up watermelon in silence for a while, thinking. The eyelashes sweep down then up. Down and up again, making a faint whooshing sound as they do so. Her lower lip catches for an instant on her teeth.
The silence is stretching thin, now. ‘Used to have a dog,’ she says, ‘but my parents sacrificed it.’
‘Oh,’ I console. I used to have a life once, but Germaine Greer sacrificed it. She doesn’t know who Germaine Greer is. She is lucky. Que fuerte.