syndrome

Ugliness triggers my palpitations, not beauty and the Basilica of Santa Croce. Watching the apple trees, the ones that were planted carelessly last summer by a council worker on contract, shortly before the drought, watching them endure weeks and weeks without water, the odd football cracking the only branch of significance, watching them just managing to survive, and willing them to die but knowing they won’t die for years and years, that they will get just enough rain eventually. Passing these apple trees, then around the corner, the corner the Somali boys work, and across the car park where every so often a fist fight between drivers is narrowly avoided, down the Lidl’s corridor where the shadow of the Swastika painted in black paint two summers ago still holds to the wall, and out in front of the sklep where the blonde woman who works at the butchers is standing with her twin boys, but she’s not in her usual uniform of white overalls smudged with pig’s blood, and she’s looking lovely and sexy and strong and free, despite the little girl just inside the doorway who is bawling her eyes out.

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