There was a connection between them. Invisible but deep. Like the nerve which lights at once glans and right allux. Well, it was just that one.
Long afternoons together, Michelle rubbed his hallux. Fraxinus suspected a faster way, but waited in her logical ravines. Because she was a Taurus, she justified. Could have been even a saurus, Fraxinus approved her as a woman.
It did work out. They started their criminal conspiracy. In the cotton base there were warm juices’ toasts. And they spread cat food on the Bardoles’ («arshole») canapes. And they evaded warty missives swearing not to own a TV. And they chew the acme behind the mighty placard of Mickey Mouse, the moron in red shorts and the two yellow buttons.
Then the ring went off. Fraxinus felt less concern with Mickey’s ears than the gradual curdling inside Michelle’s mouth. She found more emancipation in Rex, the fictional police dog, than in her husband’s Coke empties. Because – what rogues – they owned a TV.
Fraxinus farts, blinds the photocell and reopens the doors. I confide him that Michelle has rats in her womb and makes ricotta from the eyelashes. He replies that it’s Wednesday, and so under the cloak of loving his scoliotic kid he can relax with Topolino*. That the comic book today is printed on crummy paper and it’s lightweight as in the good ol’ days, but the all-knowing midget still dresses the same. That you can’t really schedule life. That he fucks Kira anyway. That if sees me again he’ll smash my face.
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