Tuesday, 23 February 2016

Girl at the Bank (another log from the archive backlog)

give me your answer do

She walks into the bank, says hello to someone she knows then waits for her turn, looking through the window at something distant.

When she leaves, her two small children follow her to the Pizza van where she collects her order.

She holds it in her left hand; her right hand is hooked through the handle of a wicker basket that she balances on her hip.

Her hip is small, but her hip is strong.

In the basket there is a pumpkin.

There is no wind to ruffle her hair, even if there was it wouldn’t; she has pushed it into a wild bunch held by a simple clip.

Then she walks home.

In the kitchen, when no one is looking, she unclips her hair and it escapes down her neck.

She places the pizza on the table.

At the sink she washes a lettuce, admiring the contrast of the fresh green of new life and the white hardness of old.

Droplets of water lie on her hands, they look like diamonds.

She sets the leafs in a stainless steel bowl and mixes a vinaigrette.

Then she sits down and looks out of the window at something far away.

Her children run in, climb up onto their chairs and they start eating the pizza, she turns the salad in the vinaigrette and sets some on their plates.

She has a son.

She has a daughter.

Her mother taught her how to make the vinaigrette.

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