Cold Cuts

I hope she didn’t do this for me, he thinks, as various and consecutive Rod Stewart songs squirm grotesquely from the speakers; like fat maggots they fall to the floorboards and shimmy unwanted under the bed, under the fridge, under his skin.

In one sweet moment, he notices the tone from an accelerating moped engine in the street outside harmonises perfectly with the outro from Maggie May.

I hope she didn’t do this for me. Already, as she coyly lights candles and attempts flirtation, he is dissecting her. She has good legs, like Parma Ham, he thinks.

Georgetown goes on unaware outside. More mopeds pass. Less tuneful this time. Now, she has changed into a black vest top and black shiny shorts. She has a small off-white bandage around her right knee. She had good legs, he thinks.

Rod is still playing in the background. He is beginning to like this CD. It fuels his spirit, the spirit he needs to do what he is about to do. Stoking a desire that most people must ignore. By the middle 8 of Sailing, he is so unhinged with rage he would contentedly bludgeon a nun to a fizzy pulp with a prosciutto.

Why am I so obsessed with Italian meats?

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