‘An Indian,’ she spat. ‘What were you thinking?’
That, I suppose was the problem. Or the joy. Depending on your angle. I wasn’t thinking. It [falling in love] wasn’t about thinking.
I came home that day, stomach like a wrung out cloth, pink cadet uniform folded in my bag. Who else could I have told? Isn’t that what mothers are for?
Click here to read more.