I'm
no romantic but...
I was taking a break from work in a quiet street in Katoomba a couple of hours back and a guy walks past - early sixties Italian if I had to guess, care-worn.
I was taking a break from work in a quiet street in Katoomba a couple of hours back and a guy walks past - early sixties Italian if I had to guess, care-worn.
He
was holding the hand of his son; big, possibly the best part of forty
years old and reasonably crippled with autism.
The
son is leaning out on the verge and with his free hand, scooping up
bunches of invisible and beautiful flowers the world cannot see. But
I could tell the son could see them by the smile on his face and
the way he squeezed and relaxed his hand.
They
must have reached me mid conversation because the son said, "Don't
be a cunt, dad."
I'm not making that up.
"Don't you be a cunt too then!", chided the old man.
I'm not making that up, either.
At about this point they walked past me when the son stopped gathering invisible and beautiful things. And they both started laughing openly for all the world and me to hear.
I don't think they saw me sitting there with tears quietly streaming from my eyes.
I'm not making that up.
"Don't you be a cunt too then!", chided the old man.
I'm not making that up, either.
At about this point they walked past me when the son stopped gathering invisible and beautiful things. And they both started laughing openly for all the world and me to hear.
I don't think they saw me sitting there with tears quietly streaming from my eyes.
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