She didn’t like to talk to me, or to talk to anybody else, although she worked in HR so she did talk to people although she didn’t like it. Her grandfather had been involved in the Nazi efforts to explore Tibet and had become acquainted with the Tantrik trumpet made of thigh bone. She didn’t go that far but instead she had a whistle.
Why do you have it I asked her.
Cause I believe in breaking my life into segments and when I blow it I’m going to be out of here.
You mean leave the job? Leave me?
Maybe maybe not. I mean it’ll all be different. It’ll be like my body will still be here but my soul will be gone.
Where will it go?
That’s for me to know and you not to find out.
And if you blow it again?
How can I even answer that question? The girl who blows the whistle a second time won’t be me.
Since our wedding she’s blown the whistle every day, and since this morning every hour.