When the dust cleared, she approached. The rattling of the carriage speeding away, the tick tick tick sound of horse hooves on formica cobblestones, the high whine of the deaf coachman singing his a-tonal version of The Bolero — this cacophony might have grated lesser nerves. Not mine. I have the best nerves money can buy. Why shouldn’t I?
A Fruit Salad of Harm 