Thursday, January 17, 2008

Bloor Line, looking over and smiling.

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, with brown layered hair, solid features, wearing a curiously girlish expression, eyes wide--pupilless.

The Zahir: A Novel of Obsession, Paulo Coelho (HarperCollins)

Page 2:

I ask him what I should do next. He gives me his card and asks me to get in touch if I hear anything. I've watched this scene in dozens of films, and I'm not convinced; inspectors always know more than they say they do.
She peeks from her book to his, following along, elbow inching, a slight nod finally catching his attention. He looks at her. She's familiar, pretty, only in a way he'd notice if they were sitting this close, that curl at her lip. That's the way it is with these people, he thinks. His mother told him. They look at you, give you permission to pretend you're friends (because she really does seem so happy) even though you can't know what it is she sees. She goes to say something and he's had enough. He surprises himself, standing, gathering his briefcase and interrupts, "What do you want from me?"


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