Back from the rice paddies for lunch, we slump down on the porch, listless as slugs. Chopsticks stir slowly in bowls to pick out tiny rocks; white rice and brined turnips are tasteless as day. A fly humming around like a drunkard wheels down on Pigsy’s rice. Horse chuckles with gloating eyes, “Pigsy, you get a bowl of maggots. Do they taste good?” “Don’t fart, buddy! You want to try some?” Pigsy shouts like vomit and casts rice over Horse. Everyone bursts out laughing: maggots wriggling on Horse’s face.
plain life
plain rice plain laughter—
taste of those days
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