The tender hearted may wish to avert their eyes.
It must be a feast day, a fiesta of some kind. We visit the shops with our bags and baskets, my son and I. We’re early, they’ve just opened; the lights still flickering on overhead. Under the fluorescent glare there’s excitement from the sweating crowd. We turn to watch. They let a calf loose, a velvet black one, who skids around on the marble floor, who whirls and kicks and trips on his long dancer’s legs. The butcher has a sharp knife and a grin - he also has dancer’s legs. My son takes my hand. We join the queue.
If you know me, you'll know I am erratic to say the least. If you are not a frequent visitor; I'm afraid you caught me on an unerotic day. My cat got hit by a car a couple of days ago. Now here come the maudlin posts. Sorry, guys. This is how I deal.
I should also add that this is my morning writing, straight from a dream. I don't know of anywhere that does slaughter calves in butcher's shops, but it wouldn't altogether surprise me.