Sparks Jo Mortimer
S
ophia, wearing rubber Wellingtons and dragging a car-tyre, stomps under moonlight to the family bakery. Her red dress sparks. Grief—nice, normal grief would be better than this. The village is in darkness again and it is Sophia’s fault. Standing under his dark porch, Marco Moretti takes another fierce pull on his cigarette. “We’ve had enough of your carry-on, Sophia!” Sophia stops; the tyre smokes ominously. “I know,” she says. Marco jabs a finger at a hunched shadow on the steps of the merry-go-round. “We’ve all been talking and... see Carlo
over there? He’s fixing this mess and soon, the generator will be ready. Be as angry as you like!” “Fine” Sophia says, staring down at the melting tyre. “Make your own bread.” Marco says he’s had enough of her lip, turns away in disgust and disappears into his black house. Sophia is alone. There is quiet now, save for the sizzle-fizz coming from her dress. Carlo gazes over from behind his welding mask; Sophia feels clear, calm space running through her. At the bakery, she drags out the dough, launches it at the counter and stabs deep eyes with furious fingers. She punches and scratches the floury face before slinging it hopelessly across the shop.
23.
