Airport. Baggage counter-claim. Weight removal. Lane long as a Nigerian penis. Desk ain’t even manned yet.
A woman carries a horse head. A head on a stick. A horse with no name. A stallion without legs.
I got it – faster transport at the destination. Less cumbersome than a bike. Cheaper than taxi.
Horseriders have tight tighs.
”Pruu, pruu!” I make horsenoises. Or what I believe are horsenoises. Never been this close to a beast. The woman turns around.
”Got enough outs to keep him silent?”
A tattoo on her arm tells that I’m not a molester.
She laughs. I wink my eye. Her voice is higher than expected.
”Yes, I have.”
A bore, obviously.
”Going to Malta?” I keep at it.
”No, to Wien… Vienna,” she answers and corrects.
”A race, then?”
She laughs more. Without fun.
”I guess so… he’s a present to my son.”
Thank you. No reason to continue the discussion.
”Playing with the food, I see…”
Letters from... 