The train swayed. The afternoon sun cut through the window, striping the seats in gold and shadow. Clara felt her face grow warm. She looked down at her hands—chapped knuckles, bitten nails, a girl’s hands.
The train was a heavy, breathing beast. It smelled of velvet dust and hot metal. Clara had a window seat, and she pressed her forehead to the cool glass, watching the familiar pastures of Carstairs shrink into a green blur. She was terrified and thrilled in equal measure. alice munro wild swans
They did not go to the lake. That is the truth of it. They went to a diner, and he bought her coffee and a slice of apple pie. He told her about his wife, who had arthritis and rarely left the house. He told her about his daughter, who had moved to Calgary and never wrote. He talked and talked, and Clara listened, and somewhere between the pie and the second cup of coffee, the wild swans became something else—a code for loneliness, for the desperate need to witness something beautiful before the dark closed in. The train swayed
“Good luck with your typing,” he said. She looked down at her hands—chapped knuckles, bitten