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He had seen Marie Zhimo vanish through the door that led to the inner rooms and he sat waiting for her to return. He was there only because she had asked him to come even though now that he was there, he could hardly believe that he had come. Where was she? What was she doing? His discomposure was quickly turning into anger because he was beginning to feel like a fool sitting there, unnoticed or ignored by everybody, as if he were a chair. It was insulting, humiliating, this pointed rejection, this treatment of him as an unwanted presence. And something in the music, like a worm slithering into the dim spaces of his mind, recalled for him time past – days long ago whose essence had been infirmity and shame, and an impotent, unuttered rage that to this day clung to his flesh. How could he have failed to see that the invitation was a ploy?

- from my debut novel 'Anomaly'

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