Teresa was at sea. The boat moved – would she ever forget it? – away from the land. And something was severed; she felt delivered. “I never want to come back!” she screeched. The grey land made no effort to hold her, gave no final sign of enticement. It lay there, apathetic, allowing her to go. The loud-speaker was playing “Indian Summer”. Down pouring a huge flood of sound, drowning the salty air, paralyzing thought, emotion, everything, a vast crocodile tear of farewell, loudly lugubrious, and up against it soared Teresa’s voice, like a skylark beating its frail wings. “I…
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