So this week I’m reading Helen of Sparta, a historical novel by Amalia Carosella that tells the story of Helen of Troy when she was just plain Helen.
The stranger holds me by the hand, drawing me past stalls of colored fabrics in brilliant purples and blues, even the rarest greens, and stands that overflow with finely wrought gold and silver in quantities that make even Agamemnon seem poor. The people around us smile, bowing as we pass, and the merchants call to us, waving their goods in the air. He looks back at me, grinning, his pale brown eyes alight with joy, and my breath catches. For the space of a heartbeat, I wonder if I came with him willingly.
A, yes, the broken pieces of clay and the palest eyes, painted in Trojan blue …
Meanwhile, slow progress continues on Television Man, where we are catching up with someone who isn’t Bob, for once …
After a few seconds of whatever it was Myra was doing, Margaret just collapsed, crumpling in on herself like an emptied juice pack. Robin hurried over and helped her sit up. She seemed disoriented, her gaze not quite focusing on anything. Robin looked at Myra and said, “What happened? What did you do?” Myra didn’t answer. She took a step toward them, hands outstretched, but her feet seemed to miss the ground, and she fell, too. Chuck lunged to catch her and failed. She hit the driveway forehead-first, with a solid thunk that would’ve had him worrying she’d gotten a concussion, if she had still been human. He tripped over her and ended up sprawled on his face in between her and the armless doctor.
“Good God,” Robin said. “Aren’t we a bunch.”
Viscosity 