She set fire to her clothes and walked through the yard naked, the calloused soles of her feet grinding dust and gravel, ashes landing like fiery black butterflies in her hair. It was a dream: The wretched cowboy dreamed of Vishnu and knew his life was a lie. Once (he said) I was beautiful. You would have pushed your hair back from your face and felt your neck flush hot as my breath found your ear.
Something turns inside her; a bitter taste forms on the sides of her tongue; she moves to the kitchen sink and fills a glass halfway, drinks down the water, then fills it full and returns to the table. Where were we? You were saying?
