Fall 2010
カートのアイテムが多すぎます
カートに追加できませんでした。
ウィッシュリストに追加できませんでした。
ほしい物リストの削除に失敗しました。
ポッドキャストのフォローに失敗しました
ポッドキャストのフォロー解除に失敗しました
Fall 2010
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このコンテンツについて
Eight
Fall 2010
This evening, I come home from the clinic and find a message from Thalia on the landline
phone
in my bedroom. I play it as I slip off my shoes and sit at my desk. She tells me she has a cold,
one she is sure she picked up from Mamá, then she asks after me, asks how work is going in
Kabul. At the end, just before she hangs up, she says, Odie goes on and on about how you
don’t
call. Of course she won’t tell you. So I will. Markos. For the love of Christ. Call your mother. You
ass.
I smile.
Thalia.
I keep a picture of her on my desk, the one I took all those years ago at the beach on
Tinos—Thalia sitting on a rock with her back to the camera. I have framed the photo, though if
you look closely you can still see a patch of dark brown at the left lower corner courtesy of a
crazed Italian girl who tried to set fire to it many years ago.