Her prayers were answered by the sun god, breaking the colonists' backs on the shores of the James River, the goldhunters, the horror-writers. Her breath filled the world.
On the brightest, most crowded Bulgarian Black Sea beaches there are rusted post-communist playgrounds, rusted post-communist children hurling plastic bottles into the water, squatting on stretches of sand like Japanese secretaries staking out corporate plots of land for cherry-blossom viewing.
The weather descended on us as hot and lazy as a sweating ghost - an Englishman and two Americans, it surprised us and kept us up at night. I listened to the banal chatter in the cafe, the one not smoking taking the floor, the rest clutching their cigarettes.
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