My imminent
incarceration loomed and Nomi was atypically broody. I tried to comfort
her, thinking what a consummate liar I have become.
When we reached home, Nomi dumped her suitcase, precariously balanced
on its two hind wheels. I heard the metallic clinking of unfurled bolts
and she was gone. A minute or two later: "I can't find it!" and then
"It is not here, Sam!"
We cautiously separated one gnawed leaf from another. We studied the
inside of the box and its immediate neighbourhood, the marble counter.
The snail was nowhere to be found.
Nomi was restless for the remainder of that day. Down hill, at a
crossroad, concealed behind a gas station, stood an intimate French
restaurant. It was our crisis eatery, a refuge of self-administered
great wines and nouvelle cuisine. But today its charms failed. Nomi was
crestfallen throughout dinner. She sat and gestured and chewed the food
mechanically.
Still, ever so practical, faced with numerous arrangements before my
disappearance, she recovered. But she refused to discard the now
orphaned container and she made sure the leaves were always fresh and
glistening. She thought that I didn't notice how she inspected the box,
hoping to find her snail in it, revenant.
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