Carol

Once, I pass across a magazine booth and I see a picture of Carol, on a cover. It was a picture taken on the move. She was elegant dressed, her face radiant. Her perfect right foot was stretching a little laterally, as she was entering Tamara’s wide open left door. The whole assembly was a hymn to Carol’s mercury fluid body. I’ve seen this so many times, so close, so naked. It was a great picture, but it’s bearing a secret that nobody can read it but me. In her eyes, partially caught on camera, there is a glimpse of purple. Anybody else but me may think that is a strange reflection effect. But I know the truth: Carol is a mad woman. And Tamara is wearing slicks, as one can see in the bottom of the page. The car looks great, has a new facelift, a frowning one. One will guess is a sport facelift. But if I put together Tamara slicks and the strange camera’s lens effect, I know what I see: the two ladies out there are hunting. They are mad, refined, irresistible hunters. I don’t know what the pray is, but God have mercy for it.
I keep a single photography with Carol. Once in a long while, I’m glancing furtive looks to it. On that one, Carol is laying on her back. Next to her, spreads the dead Monster from The Green Lake. It’s stretching from Carol’s shoulder to her knees. Carol is smiling. The catfish is dead. When I firstly downloaded the photo in my laptop, I was cursing the quality of the camera. It’s impossible to catch the nature. Look, Carol has a dash of purple in her eyes. Strange light effect, from a cheap set of lenses, I thought. The Beauty and the Beast, we called the picture, in the spur of the moment. Good name: The Beauty is stretching its dead body from Carol’s shoulders to her knees.