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Posts Tagged ‘umbrella’

Umbrellas become weapons as we fight to the tube station. You elbow me as you pass and I square up, ready to fight. You say, What? I say, What? and we stare and we pause and you flick water in my eyes. I take each of my gloves, roll them together into a ball and aim at your nose. You see my arm draw back, raise an eyebrow and kick me in the knees. Today was going to be a fine day, a light day. As I lay on the ground; many people avoid me, many people try to help.

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You walk into the shop, shaved head, downturned mouth and ask for Chanukah candles. The small ones are cheap and colourful but last only a couple of hours, so the thick, twisted choice suits. You need to concentrate, you lean your umbrella against the shelves. As you decide, I see you twist the skin on your wrist as far as it will go, maybe to make sure you do still have skin, that it reacts when touched and that it responds to pressure. When you release your grip, a scarlet depression remains, and you seem elated. Today, it’s raining again.

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