You expertly boil tomatoes. It is a skill you have perfected since the age of eleven, when your mother first handed you the spoon. That glorious bubble of temperature and the steam floating in your gnarly curls. The slim man across the street curving his head to look through the window at the figures which evaporate so neatly now. Daddy somewhere, his head tight as his knuckles, tasting sweet tomato sauce plunging down his open shirt. And prising that window open, each time the bolt so stiff it hurts your fingers, aware of your mother washing the tomatoes so carefully by the sink. Watching as the tomatoes boil, punch out of themselves so you cannot avert your eyes. Your poor efforts spent trying to catch them lightly, fingers ready to burn.And the ease with which your mother takes them out , one by one, hoofing hot breath. You standing by the window watching the slim man plug his headphones in, get some courage. And your mother cooling her thumb in the acid cold, a sticky plaster tagged in her mouth. Looking at you so red and proud, knowing you will practice until you have the right scars and expressions. A... (read more)