Thursday, December 30, 2004
Every morning she would appear at the bakery precisely at ten A.M. with a shopping list purportedly for the three women who lived with her, but actually it was all for her--and most of the workers at the bakery knew it. I sat at the small cafe table, eying her huge ass, her mountainous breasts, pushing at her holey knitted sweater, and watched as it rode up from her waist over her belly.
Her eyes would widen as the counter girl placed a prune danish into the bottom of the bag, then a almond cheese danish, and a brioche, at last a croissant, some liquefied butter appearing as it was squeezed slightly to fit it into the bag. Usually at this time she would push some hair off her forehead and then, after she paid for the baked goods she would go behind the shed to have her four pastries out of sight. She daintily nibbled at first, but finally devoured all, using her pudgy fingers to push them into her mouth in a last desperate moment, determined to finish before being discovered.
Her eyes revealed a no longer suppressed, ever present sorrow, a sadness drawn out of bitterness. Of course, I was drawn to her.
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I have come to a conclusion: My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Vladimir Nabokov
