Today she is all skirt, boot and hair on her way out to the park, a
basket in one hand, a pair of Solingen scissors in the other.
Sunlight and wind jostle each other, each one trying to be the first
to greet her as she steps out the door; the light wins, just barely.
She flashes teeth at the world, and the air, beside itself with
delight, runs over her pink gums and around and around her shapely
uvula.
She walks barefoot in the grass of the park, knowing that the grass
itself will push inconveniences out from her path. Trees shade her
with an air of nonchalance, but they are just as infatuated as the
rest; they are simply too dignified to express themselves in more
obvious fashions. Foreign bacteria dare not interfere with the normal
functioning of her body, and her very gut fauna exert themselves
strenuously in her behalf.
In a wide clearing, far from the shrieks and giggles and creaking
swings of the playground, far from the petulant bourgeois of the
tennis courts, she sets down the basket and opens it. From it she
pulls hundreds of photographs, one after another. She snips them
gently, but with an intensely hateful expression on her face, and
casts the shreds to the wind. The wind obligingly carries them to the
grass, which sends snails and shrews to digest them. The dirt absorbs
their excretions, sucking them deep underground.
Soon the basket is empty, and the bowels of the earth are filled with
a black and white sludge: her leftovers. It's acidic stuff, to be
sure, but for her sake, the planet is willing to put up with a little
stomach trouble. And now she can eat just fine.
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