Trains and whistles

Near — the fountains of Dilworth Park.

A man and his wife (twice his size) tearing at each other’s clothes in the middle of the sidewalk across the street, with yells bellowing out of their protruding bellies, filling the space on a sunny, serene Sunday afternoon. And on this side of the road, along with the rest of us spectators, a couple in wedding attire; adorned in fragile lace and petals, perspiring under the heat of the midday sun, about to pose for photographs to last a lifetime. The photographer tries his best to circle the group of bridesmaids together, all dressed in satin black. But he fails, no one listens, everyone deaf from the bellows and the screams of the couple in rags, one to two, and blinded by the sun…

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