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What's the obsession with potatoes?

I called her Potato Face when she was a kid.

What does she look like now?

Jenny was no looker at that age…

… But she matured. Bloomed.

Juliana... Never the same twice.

I scratch at my beard. I’ve never liked facial hair in hot climates, but I don’t have a choice right now. Even so, the flourishing colony of lice that has stowed aboard adds an extra edge of irritation.

Lice…

Where the fuck did they come from?

Can rat lice live on humans?

Having a fucking good go at it…

I catch one, squeezing the revolting thing between my fingernails. It bursts with a Pop!

Only another 999 to go…

*****

The boredom’s the worst. Endless hours. Endless days and nights. I’ve no idea how long.

The only breaks in the monotony are Juliana’s visits: just long enough to sit, eat something at me, toss a potato at me.

No, not Juliana: Solana.

Why's she so obsessed with the name?

How many names have I used over the years? Worn like a suit of clothes to be discarded when the weather changes and something different is needed.

I’ve never been defined by my name.

But she sees it differently…

Something skritches and I jerk a look sidelong

It’s a rat…

Just a rat…

down

It’s just a rat…

dark openings, more scratching. And

into an abyss, the

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped

*****

know what Stockholm

She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one

the label for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap

“You saying you're getting

Don't misread me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a

“So?”

I your only

produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin

why do you

chewing, mouth hanging a little

me rot, you have your camera

you. I assume you do want me to feed

you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so

“Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've

giggling. “So,

hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I can see right through you. The same heartless bastard that shipped me out to dig up potatoes for the rest of my life. Along with all the others you did the same to.

in her seat, arches her brows.

“Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really

“Solana…” she hisses.

working, she says no more. Instead, she stands, the lunchbox tumbling from her lap. The contents spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less than white. Even under the heavy make-up, her colour has changed. White-faced,

on her heel, she stalks

to know what's coming. Launching myself at the fallen food, ignoring the jab of pain in my ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab broken fragments of meat in one hand, a cake with the other before, with a click, the light winks

the camera. It hardly matters. My

only a single bite taken from the corner. And I

not eaten anything

For how long?

no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is

had

empanada, then another, I ram the food into

the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and choking and

to swallow, gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where

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