In a universe close away from here, Mara was feeling philosophical.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, knowing without a five-o’clock-shadow of a doubt that Tark would want to hear what was going on inside what was, by far, the heaviest part of Mara’s size zero frame.
“Have you, my platinum preying mantis?” said Tark. He pivoted to face his wife on his bare feet, the trail of the mustard yellow sarong he wore flapping in the breeze coming through the open balcony doors of their twelfth-storey Dublin city centre penthouse. The gardeners had just been in, and one-hundred twenty-six trees and shrubs of varying tub sizes were inordinately grateful. “What about?”
Mara stretched and unwound herself from the 13th century Moroccan day bed under the enormous Jackson Pollock in the living room. “Meaning,” she said. “I was wondering if we had any. In our lives.”
“But of course our lives have…
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Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 