The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. For a time she promenaded the room. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. Her sensitive ears could hear her foster mother snoring in front of the television. “Gross. “Did you see who that was?” he asked in a low tone. It plucked shingles from the school building, threatening to shake them all loose one by one like rotting teeth. Surely his calculated desire to sit near her meant that his attention had surely been brought from its normal diversions into her realm. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. Still, Katy Pfister is a grumpy whore who would open her legs for half the football team if given a chance.
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