She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. You have threatened to kill me for nothing, I know not how many times. She was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated.
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