Experimental and cynical vignettes, reminiscent of Lucian Freud paintings. The prose like thick sculptural brushstrokes abstracting the flesh, with layers of acerbic wit. An unsentimental interpretation of love and loss.
‘I love you too much. It’s dangerous.’ He was lying. To himself also. He liked being on a high plane – betrayal, remorse, regret. But Carol was right. He was bored by her body. Her sensible, efficient pelvis. Even naked she walked like a tennis player. Her ugly breasts no longer piqued his interest. In retrospect, nothing had been as interesting as their first kiss.