There is a specific kind of rot that lives beneath the surface of status – it smells of expensive soap and the oily, metallic tang of stale orange zest.
“Doctor Thorne. His name is fitting. He is leaning in. His eyes locked on her blank face. I can see the liver spots on his hands from up here. The evidence of his Spanish timeshare and days on the yacht, his rotation of paid company oscillating more than the slender gold hands on the blood-bought Rolex. It clings to his wrist. His quickening pulse throbs under the strap in time to the tick. I can smell the stale Nescafe and the faint, oily tang of stale orange zest on his breath. It’s a heavy, wet heat that clings to the fine hairs on the girl’s neck, coating her skin, sticking to her soul. Tarred.”
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