/lit/ - Literature

>>15850656
>Nuns go by as quiet as lust, and drunken men and sober
eyes sing in the lobby of the Greek hotel. Rosemary
Villanucci, our next-door friend who lives above her
father’s café, sits in a 1939 Buick eating bread and butter.
She rolls down the window to tell my sister Frieda and
me that we can’t come in. We stare at her, wanting her
bread, but more than that wanting to poke the arrogance
out of her eyes and smash the pride of ownership that
curls her chewing mouth. When she comes out of the car
we will beat her up, make red marks on her white skin,
and she will cry and ask us do we want her to pull her
pants down. We will say no. We don’t know what we
should feel or do if she does, but whenever she asks us,
we know she is offering us something precious and that
our own pride must be asserted by refusing to accept