My father almost killed my mother on a Sunday in June, early in the afternoon. I had gone to church at a quarter to twelve as usual. I needed to bring sweets from the pastry shop that had opened in the new shopping center of the town, a complex of temporary buildings constructed after the war, in anticipation of reconstruction. On my way home, I took off my Sunday clothes and put on a dress that was easy to wash. Once the customers left and the shutters were put back in place in the grocery store window, we had lunch, with the radio on, of course, because at that time there was a humorous program, The Court, with Yves Deniau playing the role of a hapless clerk who was constantly accused of ridiculous crimes, and the judge, with a trembling voice, imposed funny sentences. My mother was in a bad mood. The argument that started with my father, as soon as he sat at the table, lasted throughout the meal. She cleared the dishes, wiped the cloth, but continued to launch accusations at my father, spinning around in the kitchen, just a little, squeezed between the coffee shop and the staircase that led upstairs, as she did every time she was in a bad mood.
9
15
€
Delivery
by Tue, 28 Jul
14,00 €
shipping cost
Sent from Greece