As for the ewe, she was still deep in meditation, her eyes clamped shut, repeating the code of thieves and charlatans and those who are good to themselves the world over. “I have to do what I have to do,” she said. “I have to do what I have to do.”
During the meal—a few blades of lemongrass for him, a Mekong platter for her—they talked about this and that, but she wasn’t really engaged, busy as she was dreaming up a headline. “Museum Takes on Asian Slant” was good, but she’d have to fight hard to get it past her editor, who despised what she called “wordplay.”
His waist size was twenty-eight. His body-fat index was 2 percent. He did not have a potbelly. He would never again have a potbelly. Now here was this article, essentially comparing him to the Buddha.
How can you not want to know what your parasites are talking about? I wondered. “What if what they’re saying is cruel?” she continued. “It’s bad enough having them in there, but if they’re literally making fun of me behind my back, it would be too much to bear.”