9
You can’t just fall in love with a slug. That’s what Sara told me, but she was wrong. I met a slug called Beatrice and she had beautiful eyes. She might not’ve been a slug. What’s one of those creatures with a shell and lots of neck? Anyway, Beatrice was the most wonderful person I’d ever met, but she told me she already had a man, a proper gent, a darling, fifty years of age and none the worse for wear. His name was Jet, short for Jet Black, which was the colour of his shell, and he smoked Cuban Cigars and read Neruda to her in the bath.
When I told Sara about Beatrice, she scoffed. In all the books I’ve read, she said, I’ve never heard about a slug with a shell and lots of neck. Perhaps you mean a snail? she inquired, Perhaps you mean a lobster? No, Sara, I know the difference between a slug and a snail. We drank tea, and I bemoaned the fact that Beatrice would never love me, until it all got too much, and Sara slapped me across the cheek. What you need, she said, is a grip. Go outside, and don’t come back until you’ve got one.
That set me off thinking, which was a brief but effective distraction from the heaviness of my heart. The problem was, I wouldn’t know a grip if one hit me in the face. I hadn’t the slightest idea what I was looking for. Despair caught me up and then overtook me, I fell down on my knees in the dirt and wept, and I never did go back to that kitchen.
