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by Salvatore Difalco

They said I was a mistake. Or rather, they said I was mistaken. My ears have grown smaller and smaller over time. I cannot explain it. Sumptuous women and men wearing white masks bid from the gallery.

“I want him because he is beautiful”

“I want him because he is brutish.”

“I want him because he is black.”

Someone covers mouth with hand: woman in pink. She could have been embarrassed by the comments or appalled at the lack of respect people have for interpretations of ancient legends.

“Are you saying he will get bigger?”

“I’m saying he will take up more space than we have.”

They hide behind mother-of-pearl opera glasses and black velvet fans, but I can smell them. They reek of dairy and feces. They raise their white-gloved hands. One man raises three fingers.

“The event swarms with minute abstractions.”

“These people have never been to the subcontinent.”

“Have you?”

“My father spoke of it when I was a child.”

The experience of being here brings tears to my eyes. I can see everything for what it is for the first time in my life.

“Sold to Mr. Rhino.”

“Sold to Mr. Rhino.”


Salvatore Difalco is the author of 4 books. He currently lives in Toronto.


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