Swearing

Six thirty.

The sun won’t come up for another hour and I don’t really want to go to the store in the inky darkness. I have Gloria today at nine; I thought we would get some dog shampoo at Mini Pet Mart and some toilet paper from Bi Mart. Aesop’s fleas are still bugging him, even after a dose of medication. His happiness is important to me because he is more than just a dog, he’s an intelligence. So, when I work up the energy, I’m giving him a bath… I think I see a hint of daylight in the east just now. Very soon I’ll make my run over to the market. The idea of tramping the streets and thoroughfares sort of reminds me of a scene from Mrs Dalloway, dipping in and out of the minds of people. The difference is that, at seven in the morning, there’s nobody out walking around except me. But the skyline is growing rose and pomegranate and it’s about time for my little trip.

Quarter of eight.

When I got there, Lisa was shooting the bull with a tall guy with tattoos, swearing like a trooper. And I wondered what I was doing there, hearing four letter words and kind of cringing at the sound. My dad used to say that using profanities displays a want of vocabulary, and probably of brainpower too. To some extent he had a point… Now the sun is huge and glaring right in my face, a big orange ball. I’m still thinking of Lisa’s foul mouth and just why it bothers me. Maybe I’m not the only one it offends.

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