Gypsy
Gypsy Linda prepared for bed confident she could not receive bad news. It was Thursday, bad news was announced in dreams on Fridays, After walking over to the drawer and taking out the tied chicken legs, Linda rubbed the tattoos, stricken by the taunt of sailors, on the side of her neck for good luck. Gypsies don’t read each others palms. They understand war casualties, letter writing in the fog, black and white images that make you forget the wind. She wasn’t going to think about the fuzz on his back, think about how it spread to his buttocks. Teresa walked in the bedroom with the Acacia oil. She was so thin she was starting to look like phyllo. The señora wants me to brush her hair? Wait. Please, wash your hands. Mr. Puttock will be home in the morning, I want my hair noticeable. Look at you, skinnier by the day. Certain about not telling me who the father is? No señora, it doesn’t matter. He is an important man. He won’t care of my baby. Teresa your pulling my hair, how