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Dirty Pink Flesh
A rhinestone fell from my shirt. It balanced dangerously on the cotton fabric, until the glue - that had been slowly boiling in the unusual march heat, gave away. The white threads absorbing the paste like a sponge, releasing the metal adornment into a strained arc, dropping the metallic stone in a murky curbside puddle.
I stood over this puddle, admiring the stone's new situation. My eyes penetrated the silty depths with hope they would observe corrosion. I - being a man with no interest in the sciences (especially that of alchemy), did not know if my rhinestone would oxidize at that very moment, and I will never know, because my experiment was interrupted by an obnoxious young girl. "I want to go home," her voice sizzled with tears. Her hair resembled a wicker basket, the oils had matted large chunks of her hair into a tapestry of beige, straw and tan, the humidity pressed her greasy points into her watery copper eyes. I didn't respond - couldn't this belligerent individual see the importance of my sidewalk experiment? "I'm tired," Her face had been smudged by the day's activities. She leaned her head into my side, cushioned against my lower ribs. Her sticky hand groped into mine, fingers interlacing, ribbons of dirty pink flesh. I grimaced in her grip. I had wanted to pull away, but her pudgy fingers were pillars of fire, smoldering our two bodies together. I couldn't escape her soiled hands, I couldn't pry away from underneath her yellow finger nails. I was unable to go away from this little body, she was my seven year old daughter, and we dangled off the curb, waiting to cross the street. |
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