June 2012, North Rush and East Pearson, Chicago, the world

lamborghiniThe thin, broken, coloured woman sits on the street corner steps, bony knees up to her chest. It’s hot this afternoon but she has her hoody half obscuring her face. She’s not begging—just hoping.

On the other corner the man from the other world steps out of the yellow Lamborghini and glances her way. Like her, he has no socks: just shorts, loafers, polo shirt. He’s tested this one. Nice yellow and he likes the Italian badge. Inside the corner store are two more Italian brands to try on. The Bugatti is nice, black with red trim. And a pop up spoiler that the experts say will make the car significantly more stable at speeds over 200km/h. But the Ferrari is cheap at less than half the price.

He goes inside and knows he will score another free cup of coffee. It thrills him. It also thrills him to know that the people in the street are watching. He knows he’s just like them but he’s worked hard and deserves a treat.

The woman has worked hard too. But circumstances came her way so here she sits, only half in her mind and that half not working overly. She hardly sees the man. Ferraris raise no moral questions for her now. The man doesn’t see her. He can’t afford to.


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