The Woman who Slaughtered her Husband
Front to the pharmacy, there is this small playpark where old people and the homeless spend the afternoon.
I bought the fucking hemorrhoid cream and a tablet of myorelaxants, before I carried my ass painfully to sag on the nearest bench at the park.
I took a seat next to exactly nine hijabi old ladies, and a single Sub-saharan African fella, each, likewise; holding a pharmacy bag and making the "pharmacy escale."
The guy gawked at me in compassion, not knowing what kind of horrorhoid I was into.
I looked at his leg plaster cast in turn, thinking to myself
"There there brotha, there there."
The guy leaned on his crutch and hobbled away, while the old women started discussing a homocide story they watched on TV: The woman who cut her husband to pieces in Rue Du Tribunal — An unprecedented terrible crime at the Tunisian capital.
The wind felt mild. The trees swaying in tedium. The kids fighting. The dogs barking. The ladies funny in their assembly.
It felt homelike for them. But never for me and the African gentleman.
The afternoon proceeded lumberingly into late noon. And late noon into fatter ennui.
And I am not reporting the homocide incident if that’s what you think this story is about.
Hemorroids are utter agony.
I had to crawl nearly 30 minutes back to my place. Sweaty. Chagrined. No escales.
Only legs. Sorely dragged. Among homes of people.
