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Monday, pill number 11

le storie di silvia
tempo di lettura: 5 minuti

Lesson n.4: contract a travel package

I followed her like a dog.

I had worn for my departure my favorite denim of Diesel, practically the one so stretched and not stretched to be almost a second skin, but it does not allow a great stride, but only a firm and marvelous gluteus to be observed.

I had a blouse screwed at the sides, white and snow-white, and I had the brilliant idea to match the bag, the Philosophy pumps, the suede model with the cork cone heel. Basically, I had two throwbacks twelve inches high at the feet and a huge suitcase.

Ina was sinuous exactly as I was clumsy and sweaty. I could barely keep up with them, but luckily our goal was to get to the taxi stand only.

Each of her strands of hair floated behind her shoulders exactly as each of my own became soaked with sweat and clung to the forehead slipping on the lens of the sunglasses which, in turn, slipped on the hump of the moist nose, falling more and more.

Within ten minutes my face had become fluorescent and the forehead was so wet that the frangetta I had done at that time, seemed glued with the glue stick to the skin of the forehead.

A complete disaster!

We arrived at the taxi stop after about twenty minutes. She, like a freshly picked field rose, I in my shirt completely wet from the sweat and became transparent on the breasts for the driver’s happiness.

In short, she rightly felt more proud of me for saving energy thanks to a single bag.

I could not but agree with her, until the moment when her chemisier was not stained, or a shirt as she likes to call it, by Mc Donald’s. At that point, she who is usually a very quiet and seraphic person, began to have moments of subsidence. We girls looked at her worried as she passed convulsively the classic hard and rough napkin similar to sandpaper and typical of every fastfood on the spot.

“Are you all right?” I asked her.

“No! The ketchup shirt was stained, “she answered without looking up and quickly waving her hand over the stain.

“Oh well, come on, darling, do not make a drama, then you change at home,” Linda said.

“No. You don’t understand, look here how the stain has spread! ”

Put on a little Sprite” I said, “I think you clear the spot and being gassed should take away the residues of ketchup.”

“And since the fizzy stuff removes the residues?” Linda immediately raised an eyebrow and with a tone deliberately ironic.

“I do not know,” I replied. “Once, a lady at a restaurant did so on a spot of wine and told me that the sparkling water helped the blast of the stain.”

Blast? What the hell are you talking about? But why do not you stop using these grandma’s remedies and start using the laundries or the regular stain removers? “And saying so he burst out laughing.

I did not go crazy, but I swore that it really worked and I tried it more than once, too, and with excellent results, so I told Ina to try, so she had nothing to lose.

In fact I had never experienced this technique, but I was confident about the popular knowledge of the restaurant lady who had an old-age housewife who knew more than the Devil.

Ina so wet the Sprite napkin and began again convulsively to rub it quickly on the stain. Sincerely and strangely, the theory was working, so much so that Linda herself was shocked. The ketchup stain was slowly disappearing and I, theatrically raising my eyes to the sky, proudly exclaimed “Do you see that I’m right?”

 However, the spot had disappeared, but in its place appeared another one, that of Sprite, which, drying, in fact, became pink because it had faded the previous one and had also become yellow. So Ina’s shirt now had a pink spot with a large yellow ocher outline, exactly at the groin. 

It was not a very nice thing to look at, especially on a girl.

 See you on next monday 

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