Smut
Well, I’ve known some neat freaks in my day: people who categorize their clothing, rinse an ashtray after every cigarette, fluff the cushions as soon as you rise…
And I’ve always enjoyed the theory that the greater the compulsion to order your physical world, the greater the inner chaos.
In front of the grocery store, there is a very plump Belgian woman, mid-sixties I guess – as immaculately dressed as her figure will allow and fresh from the salon, tightly curled hair dyed youthful. I watch as she makes her way meticulously round a large, mirror sheen brown Mercedes Benz.
Leaning in close to the chassis, licking her finger tip and rubbing off a spot, then another, and another… Stepping back to check her work, head cocked, heaving disapproval, and on to the next affront.
I notice her husband walking meekly across the parking lot toward her; she catches sight of him in the side view mirror, whirls around and thrusts out plump fingers to snatch the 10 francs from the shopping cart that he’s holding out obediently.
He then settles into the driver’s seat and waits, hands in lap, as she scrapes squashed bugs off the windshield with her thumbnail.
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