Eventful Trip to the Market

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Magdela would have preferred the year to be made up of eleven months. August was simply unnecessary—it was too hot to do anything. Unless, of course, a person’s mother ordered him or her to perform a chore in the midst of the heat like Magdela’s had, and then there was no choice but to be active.

And today, there was no cheerful sunshine to accompany the high temperature; the young

Italian didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. While perhaps the sun’s absence meant a few less degrees, the ostensible lifelessness of everything around her was certainly less than uplifting. There was no blue sky above and seemingly no air to breathe. Above her head was a motionless, tyrannical, and humid drabness; the sun only a hope somewhere, a pale thumbprint, a mistake of a splotch. There wasn’t even the slightest hint that the uncomfortable, spongy atmosphere was going to spool itself up into a rain cloud or invigorating thunderstorm. There was not a whisper, not a sigh of wind. It was simply miserable...and she had to be out in it.

Perspiration couldn’t even begin to describe the downpour of sweat covering her body, acting as an adhesive between her skin and her brother’s polyester soccer shirt. As Magdela walked hurriedly down the long expanse of sidewalk, which was cracked and overtaken by weeds in places, she kept her eyes cast downward, so as not to draw the attention of anyone inside the swarm of passing cars. A few had honked their horns or shouted vulgarities from their windows, but most were too busy concentrating on getting to the beach before they roasted in their tiny European cars.

She looked up just a little to see how far she had yet to go, but as she did, Magdela caught the eye of a small group of boys a few m...

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...d one hand over the back of her thigh, hoping to alleviate some of the burning, while she examined the elbow of her other arm.

She reached toward her left foot and found that the straps of her thong sandal had broken, rendering it unusable, not a good thing when the pavement was steaming.

Once her crying settled to soft sniffles and sodden eyelashes, she inhaled deeply to stifle the sobs that threatened to crawl up her throat again. She had another good ten minutes of walking to get to the open-air market, her destination, and now she had no money and one less shoe. Unfortunately, going home empty-handed just wasn’t an option. Maybe the merchants would take pity on a young girl covered in sweat and blood, out of breath, and with eyes red from crying, and perhaps give her something to take home.

If nothing else, Magdela certainly wasn’t too proud to beg.

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