Ail sits on a stool. She is drinking from a tall glass. After each sip she shuts her eyes.
Tib, a mother of eight children, looks at the woman with scorn. I would never sit on a stool, she thinks. One of her eight children runs up to her. She strikes her.
Ada is only eight years old. Her mother, a brutal woman, has soft hands. Ada adores being struck with it.
Pit has eaten too much. He calls the waiter over and asks for some sort of drink. “We don’t serve drinks here, sir,” the waiter responds. “Well what is that woman having?” he asks, pointing at Ail. “A glass of gin, sir.” “Well I’ll have one of those then.” “Sure thing, sir,” and he walks away to go fetch the drink.
Ulg, tired, rests his head on the table. He has not slept in three nights. The first two had been spent counting certain objects, and the third night had been spent recruiting new objects that he hoped to one day try to count.
Bok never knows what to say, so before he approaches Ail he jots down a few phrases on a napkin. Upon reaching the stool, however, his sweaty palm has made all the ink on the napkin run, and so he has nothing to say. Ail, generous creature that she is, pats him on the head.
Tib, a mother of eight children, looks at the woman with scorn. I would never sit on a stool, she thinks. One of her eight children runs up to her. She strikes her.
Ada is only eight years old. Her mother, a brutal woman, has soft hands. Ada adores being struck with it.
Pit has eaten too much. He calls the waiter over and asks for some sort of drink. “We don’t serve drinks here, sir,” the waiter responds. “Well what is that woman having?” he asks, pointing at Ail. “A glass of gin, sir.” “Well I’ll have one of those then.” “Sure thing, sir,” and he walks away to go fetch the drink.
Ulg, tired, rests his head on the table. He has not slept in three nights. The first two had been spent counting certain objects, and the third night had been spent recruiting new objects that he hoped to one day try to count.
Bok never knows what to say, so before he approaches Ail he jots down a few phrases on a napkin. Upon reaching the stool, however, his sweaty palm has made all the ink on the napkin run, and so he has nothing to say. Ail, generous creature that she is, pats him on the head.
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