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Goats and Gunshots

Goats and Gunshots | Page 3

She was flamboyantly beautiful. Her hair was long, falling past her waist and adorned with sparkling clips.  She wore a tight dress patterned in orange and green and purple. It clung to her curves, which were accentuated by a tight leather belt studded with sharp bronze studs. Her gold sandals were high, their heels like long spikes. She wore a tangle of gold necklaces around her smooth brown neck, and rows of rings were stacked on several of her fingers. Her earrings were gold and shaped like little daggers. Her nails, toes and fingers, were varnished in bright fuchsia. I smell her heavy, cloying perfume now.

She shouted at the man. Her hands flew in all directions but mostly pointing at him with stabbing movements or pointing frantically in one direction, behind him. The man with the beard did not move. He just kept talking softly, saying the same words to her over and over again. I could not understand any of it. Their voices came to me as babble.

I keep watching the taxi below my window. I see a man get out of the driver's seat very slowly. He looks up. He has no beard. He is bald, short and bent. Maybe he's old. I can't really tell for sure from up here. I retreat further behind the curtains. Now sweat is running down my face, between my breasts, and under my arms. The room is becoming hotter and hotter as the sun beats more strongly through the big glass windows. The air itself is wet and so hot.

Just as I think I'm about to faint, I hear a car engine start, accelerate, and drive off. My head is spinning. I can't stay here forever, half smothered by the curtains, my body drenched but my mouth so dry I can hardly swallow. I must make it to the bathroom for water. I have to risk it. Praying that the man in the car has really driven off and the shooting is over, crouching low again, I make a run for the bathroom door.

Goats and Gunshots | Page 3

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