Casualties of Forgiveness. Part XI

“You shouldn’t be here,” the security guard told them. “It’s after ten.”

The lovers were caressing on the steps of a Michelin Tires retailer in Reggio di Calabria. The streets were empty and the full moon was shining bright through an oversized tire on the roof.

“Che cosa state facendo qui!?” the security guard shouted. “Hello!?”

He wondered whether they were mute or lost tourists.

“We’re protesting,” she finally said.

The security guard smelled absynth on her lips.

“You’re protesting Michelin?” the guard asked. “What for? In all my years . . .”
“No, no. Simpler,” she said.

It looks like a divine doughnut, the man beside her thought, still perplexed by the image in the sky.

“You’re protesting rubber?” the security guard offered. “Tires?”

Silver mocking moons reflected in her eyes.

“Rotondità?”