John Wayne was no where to be seen and do not forsake me oh my darling did not sound, just the street cleaners horn, loud enough to disturb the rest of those in the cemetery 10 blocks away.
The houses on my street were built between 1400 and 1700 and although the facades have been done and the insides probably changed a few times each century, the street is still narrow. Built to allow space for people and sheep, there is space for only one vehicle at a time, and not a wide one at that.
Argelès is fanatic about cleaning its street, and thank goodness it no longer uses the vomit-producing lemon scent that clogged the sinuses and made chocking the only alternative. Still the machine comes around regularly.
The car belongs to my neighbour Yian, a young man despite having a bit too much testosterone, has a very sweet side. We have a sugar-borrowing relationship, although he is more apt to borrow and I am more apt to use his muscle for lifting stuff. I have noticed it is only the locals that will park on the street. The others will drive up to deposit packages then take their cars to the river or the library parking lot, a short walk away.
Yian was in no hurry.
The street clear was.
More horns.
More raised voices.
Horns, voices, horns, voices, horns, voices and a growl or two.
The street cleaner inched the machine towards the red car.
Yian gave in.
Cut and print.
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