'Tell me about Saturday,' I say. 'Tell me.'
Her eyes widen in excitement as if she has anticipated this very question, this chance to expose herself. Like a budding actress speaking her debut lines, she wets her lips with her tongue and draws in a long breath that threatens to inhale the whole room.
‘I danced and danced, toes and heels pecking the earth like birds feeding,’ she answeres. Sandra always speakes like this: poetry at the speed of a subway train.
‘Where was this?’ I ask, watching nothing but her lips.
‘In the rain. I danced between the strips of rain.’
‘This was Saturday?’
‘Are you sure, Sandra? It didn’t rain on Saturday.’
‘It didn’t rain for you, maybe, but it always rains for me. The sky shatters and rains shards of glass.’
‘That sounds very painful.’
‘No, it sounds beautiful.’