“The way she looked at me set the glasses of grenadine rattling and the first one slipped to the edge of the tray, slowly tipped over, and spilled into her lap…. She took a glass of grenadine and poured it over her head and into her hair, and then another glass, and she was covered with raspberry syrup and soda-water bubbles. The last glass of raspberry grenadine she poured down the inside of her dress, then she asked for the bill. She walked out with the aroma of raspberries trailing behind her, out onto the street in that silk dress covered with peonies, and the bees were already circling her…
I found her standing in the square surrounded by wasps and bees like a booth selling Turkish honey at a village fair, but she made no effort to brush them away as they ate the sugary juice that coated her like an extra skin… I saw how the sun had dried the raspberry grenadine in her hair and made it stiff and hard, like a paintbrush when you don’t put it in turpentine, like gum arabic when it spills, like shellac, and I saw that the sweet grenadine had stuck her dress so tightly to her body that she’d have to tear it off like an old poster, like old wallpaper. But all that was nothing to the shock I felt when she spoke to me.”

p. 18-9, I Served the King of England, Bohumil Hrabal

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