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Turner In Malta

This Swede at the Bed & Breakfast paints watercolours. He's the owner, well when his wife is out to Sweden on business. When she's back in Malta, she's like a bitch on a quad, terribly territorial sniffing at the garbage bins. I told him I was going to the Art Museum in Valletta to check out the Turner. He looked surprised. He hadn't been there. He didn't look like he was ready to go either. He keeps talking about the corner store. He says you can get everything there. Handy, because it's half a block away. There's a large tongue chiseled into the stone building hanging out above the door. A man's tongue, no doubt about it, a male tongue. You can tell by the mustache. Anyway, the Turner wasn't such a great thing to look at. Tiny miniature watercolour swamped by the Preti crowd upstairs. Instead of bothering, I could have stayed and read Cervantes or some shit airport trash on the roof top terrace, and said "Good evening," softly to the Swede and his wife, cuddled up on the couch downstairs in front of a Swedish DVD, on my way out to dinner.

Story by:

Persephone Abbott

5 November 2012

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