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At home Marta reproached him for gallivanting about after
curfew, and also for not taking his cell phone with him.
Instead of explanations, he just looked her over carpingly.
“I’ll never get used to you this way,” he finally said. She
embarrassedly touched the wrinkles on her cheeks, which
she couldn’t get used to.
“I’ve just seen two boys who they ‘cleaned out’ to zero….”
“Why are you telling me this? To suggest we’re living in
hell? That stopped being news for me long ago.”
“I’ll figure out something,” Torne growled out stubbornly.
“You won’t figure out anything! You’re an actor, not a
robber. And don’t scurry around with that satanic device in
your pocket. And don’t try to ‘clean out’ anyone. Because I
won’t accept time stolen from someone else in me!”
“Marta, you haven’t even lived to 30, and they’ve stolen the
rest of your life from you. And you’re ready to live out your
life like this – in menopausal misery, without any
pleasures?”
“If it’s all about pleasure, then order a silicon replica of me –
they’ll make you one that looks twenty-years-old from a
photograph.”