Page 9, "The Persuasion"
Five years earlier
Chapter 1
I was alone in the wooden compartment, aboard what was then the express from Calais—a taxi, three train rides, the underground, and the Channel Ferry all ticked off on the itinerary. Then, the journey from Oxford to Paris consumed a very long day spent inspecting timetables in four-point type.
The windowpane, nearly as big as the sliding door, rattled in its frame and I tapped my forehead bang against it. If only I could locate the angle of confusion and tap it, drain it.
Late June, hot and when I pressed my palm to the window, the skin clung to the glass. Maybe that would be better, if the whole of me could simply dissolve into the pane.
I was alone, traveling second-class on worn brown-plaid cushions. I leaned back, crossed my feet on the opposite seat, kicked the roses out of view, and folded my hands over the book.
A raindrop shimmered on the glass, floating down the pane like a parachute, then poof. I wished I could evaporate in tiny poofs too.
Instead I remembered the flowers, which brought three bites of cold toast, "breakfast," up.
I told myself to look through
the glass. Wheatfeathers brushing blonde fields. I should write that down.
The train whorled on, low horns and slow drums, rumbles and whistles, a lullaby of locomotion.
I dreamt of a man dressed in equations, factoring in love, he said.
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