“Why do they think it’s them?” I ask him
“Do you want to know my version?” He asks with his mouth pressed to my ear. His voice that is smooth and dry like Jamaican sand with some sharp shells in it to stab you in the heart.
“What is your version?” I ask
“Mama feels guilty about.... “
“About?”
“You know.”
“The opera coat?”
“Nej, duva, it’s not about the stupid opera coat!”
“I know,” and laugh, “ because it never was. It is because I am half wild. Feral. Because I have no family; so some kind of crazy, runaway, stray-cat derelict.”
“Min Gud! Why would you think they would think that about you?”
“Seriously?”
No comments:
Post a Comment