The affair passed at one leap from a spree to a nightmare of violence and disgust. She was an Egyptian, from the magical times. Mike and Shari sat at the kitchen table eating potato chips. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. His advice was mostly practical. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. “You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. I keep on thinking of you. He took her to Burger King, still amused by her taste in food.
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