Lore got rid of her house dress. Under the Rinnsaal from the tap, they completely extinguished the blaze, which had eaten into the field of flowers, the dress material. The cigarette, not the cause of the mishap stuffed it through the screen of the sequence, as if they wanted to discharge a debt.
"shit", then she threw the dress down.
Just over half an hour had Lores man his briefcase tucked under his arm and had gone as in the last thirty-five years. However - in time for lunch, he would be back again, without a word, as he was gone. This flag of beer, drank stupid over the years, and the smell of the desolation of an early pensioner.
Lore looked at herself in the mirror. She pulled the sheet off the bed, wrapped her still slender body draped in it, the folds like a fashion designer, turned and twisted in young girlish vanity. She reached for the cigarette, lit another cigarette. This time between acht und zwölf clock, which was her blue hours in which they could indulge their thoughts, dreams and desires with the housework.
Lore went over to the window, opened it. From the kitchen of the butcher's sausage over came the smell of offal, fecal matter, which all other smells, and even the driving noise of passing trams, the clatter of high heels of the whore - the other side of "Thirty-six" - covered. Lore looked like the lady after her as she dressed in a fur jacket, shoved in a much too short skirt and long leather boots her butt in the direction of Dachau road. In Lore's eyes, this woman had any style, and they decided it had to lie mainly in the wide-brimmed slouch hat with the red ribbons.
Lore smoked secretly, she thought of the slaps, had they been captured by her husband, as he had once caught her secret addiction. It was not the first time he beat her. As a "Nikotinikerin" and bitch he had insulted at that time.
Lore stirred up the kitchen stove after, sparks flew out of the fire hole and fell on the black plate, which was to protect the assigned Stragula-floor prior to falling embers. A smell of soot spread through the room, and for a while it did not smell of floor wax. Before Lore straightened up with a faint moan, they have regulated the air supply to the stove fire by a few millimeters further drew out the ashes slipcase. It was customary for her and Lore Man, be sparing with wood and coal, as it once a day, the necessary fuel, six stories high, had to get out of the cellar.
Lore went to the dormer window, which released the view of the rear building, the horizon, where the snow-capped mountain peaks were visible, the hair dryer at your fingertips - from a silver veil covered in sunny weather. There was somewhere behind the mountains and the sea beyond the land where the hard men inhaled with the holes in the soles of the freedom and independence with the smoke of their cigarettes.
longer than usual for a moment, Lore saw today from the dormer window. Then she went back into the bedroom. She took from the back corner of the wardrobe, the new costume, navy blue, pinstripe, had brought a few days of the parcel. With the new suit and shoes, tone on tone, she seemed like the business woman from the television, which came out of the private jet.
Lore put the box of cigarettes on top and closed the case. Before she left, she put on the new wide-brimmed hat with the red ribbons.
Lore closed the door behind him and threw the house key by the door slot.
tjm.
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