Reading and walking. There is an art to it. My feet skitter, twisting on cracked paving, the toes of my shoes thumping against tree roots thrusting up through the pavement. This morning, reading and walking I slipped and my heart sank. It could have been tragic, a dried little puddle of vomit, some Monday morning dog excretion in the middle of the path, an abandoned nappy, a bulging condom tied in a knot.
I stopped and looked back. I paused. I could feel the little furrow along the ridge of my brow deepening. Breasts. Someone's abandoned breasts tipped out onto the footpath and I had unwittingly stepped on the little latex cups.
No one would believe me, Krissy of the furious vagina. It was too perfect a fit. Sinisterly snug.
I took out my phone and cleared a space, deleting photographs of rotting fish and weed and the flash of a salmon jumping. I aimed the camera and snapped them up. Two perfect breasts, nipples kissing the dirty concrete, their lurid pink cups scooping sunlight out of the air.
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