Owen likes to take my books off the shelves and open the pages for me to read. What he chose for me today:
They entered a small farmhouse which had a woodstove in the kitchen. Bird feathers had been prised under the edges of the wallpaper, here and there. In the front room there was a bed in an alcove, windows on all sides of it. A mat on the floor. There was hardly any furniture. It looked to him like the quarters of a monk. The friend was not to arrive for a couple of days, Clara said.
Later that night they lay on the bed by the three windows, barely dressed. He liked to sleep separate, in his own world, but with her he kept waking, reaching to hold her flesh against him. During the night Clara turned slowly like something on the floor of the ocean. She would put more and more clothes on in the darkness. She was always cold at night, in this room of the sea.
-Michael Ondaatje, In the Skin of a Lion