Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

gifts. A sunflower for Paul, which wilted in an empty milk bottle for two weeks. A foam rubber rugby ball, which Max accidentally threw out of the kitchen window to languish forevermore where it landed. Or the tin of Scottish shortbread that Irene ravenously devoured when she was high. And now someone rang the doorbell, just when we were voting for or against Claudia and, just as I’d been hoping, Fergus appeared, bringing me a stretched wine gum decorated with specks of tobacco, which he pulled out of his jacket pocket with every intention of sticking it in my mouth. In his other hand he held a bulging backpack with a pair of old sneakers strapped to it.

“Man!” said my father, “Don’t tell me you’re going back to England?”

Fergus put the bag down and shook his head.

“It’s over. She kicked me out. It’s not even been a month, man. Hello Lu, my baby. Oh, of course, she can’t eat that, right?” He bit the wine gum, sucking on it and pulling the bottom half down his chin. As he closed the door behind him, he left the gum hanging out of his mouth. He looked so helpless, a lovesick giant who’d lost his appetite but who, aware of his preordained duty in the fairy tale, had half swallowed a dwarf, which was still jiggling its little legs.

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