Anglican Cowgirls


Katya offered a pear to a delivery boy who was propping his shorts on a ten-speed and spooning up yoghurt from a plastic tub. He asked if the pear was organically grown. She said it was recycled. He said that was real, dropped it into a saddle bag, remembered to say thanks and jumped his bike back into traffic. A leather-faced man came dodging down the street cackling in the faces of passers-by. Katya gave a quick polish on her sweater sleeve and clapped a pear into his flapping hand without pausing in her step and ignored the articulate spew of abuse, between bites, that followed her down the block. At the corner she arranged four pears on a bench set in the shade of a dying maple. An old Pomeranian half naked with mange muzzled another, small and bruised, then jigged and yapped with such a malicious show of gums, that Katya dropped the soft fruit with a satisfying splat on the dog’s threadbare skull and crossed into the next block.


~ by Rocky Green on January 13, 2007.

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