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The scarf

He arrived at the station out of breath, tripping continuously on the scarf that he held in his hand. It was late at night and the lights of the building were splendid. But this only goes for those who have a bit of time to spare. For everyone else it’s just neon against a dark sky. Or a little less, but certainly nothing more. The central hallway was deserted. He took the stairs to the next floor and sat at the bar stool. From up there she could imagine the crowd that constantly agitated the station during the day. Now he was alone.

– We’ll have to wait ‘til dawn for the next train.

– Right. (pause) Where do you need to go?

– Me? (laughs) Listen, is that scarf warm?

– Very. It’s mainly synthetic but . . . well I’d say that it’s warm, yes. Of course it’s not that cold here. Who knows, perhaps if I lived in the north it would only be a useless rag around my neck but … I’m afraid I’ll never know.

– And that’s good, isn’t it?

– I wouldn’t know.

– Elsewhere that piece of cloth would be useless, while here, well, you have a real treasure around your neck, kid. The weight of things varies by latitude.

Valerio Maggio
Traduzione_ Marica Fantauzzi

sciarpa

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