"It's hard to be a woman" she said.
We were at the bakery, working. I enjoyed making bread in the evening and in the morning.
It was quiet outside and the warmth from the furnace made a nice contrast with the winter days, or I mean, the winter nights.
She was always saying that. What could I do?
She had some point, but things were not the same as erstwhile.
..and besides, who would go to war, who would die in those fights. Who were almost always the homeless in the cities? Was it just their fault, I didn't think so.
except when she began talking about these things and turn sour, the truth was that, in general, she liked to talk and I liked to listen.
I thought she was interesting, quite pretty and I enjoyed the time spent with her, also the silences, each one kneading the dough, mixing (by hand) the flour the water the yeast.. Fine times.
"You have boobs to play with" .. she was not happy with the answer but didn't seem too offended.
At night, going back home there were almost no cars on the bridge and the lights reflected on the water.
This was made with these prompts,
"It's hard to be a woman"
bread and water
on the bridge