IRON AND FLESH
My great-grandmother was an unbending kind of woman. She did not like abusive men at all, she did not tolerate abuse...full stop. She was around 14 years old by that time. The iron was red-hot, in her hand, ready. The clothes on the table very white, very clean, waiting to get starched, in that afternoon of small rain washing down the window glass. The man coming from the street entered the sewing room to pickup his ready shirts. He looked her in the eyes and with intent fondled her young breasts, slightly showing in the flowery dress, underneath the exceptionally immaculate lacy apron. Pulling her long ponytail, he tilted her head back and tried to kiss her reddish lips. She just swung the iron, forward and left, roasting his face’s flesh. The smell would be noticed on the street for many days after the event.