In their flat, he'd had an entire wall dedicated to Lucy, charcoal and ink mapping the way her hair fell, the shadows cast by her nose.  And the archway informed the curve of a wild woman spitting out bloody teeth, and maybe it would've been easier to just write her name on every exposed brick in the place ( Read more... )

As with all else, the things Jude misses from home are hardly conventional.  He's always been a bit rootless, enough confidence in him to feel at ease in any setting, and the island is no exception.  With Max and Lucy already here, whatever the complications, he's only a handful of people to miss, and people have always come and go as easily as ( Read more... )

It has been at least ten days.

Every morning, Jude wakes up in Max's hut.  Every morning, he wonders where Lucy is, then feels his (Max's) shirt sticking to him and remembers: there is a Lucy forty-four years (or ten days) in the past and a Lucy in a hut north of theirs and he is not with either.  It is only recently that the hurt this fact elicits ( Read more... )

It's funny, the things his mind turns to when--well, when he's walking along a magic beach to see an ex in the form of current-by-the-skin-of-their-teeth girlfriend.  A year, Max said she'd been here.  A whole bloody year.

Jude can't say it's that surprising, in a gut-deep way.  He certainly hadn't seen much of her in the past year; wonders what she ( Read more... )

The apartment's walls are no thicker than Jude's head; he can still hear the television and the shaggart that carted it in, the two things most deserving of his girlfriend's attention and least deserving of his own.

You'd think a girl with Lucy's conviction could understand the difference between not caring and caring too much, but he's not the ( Read more... )