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by Kevin Tosca

The boy waved the map and said he’d take me wherever I wanted to go. I didn’t want to go anywhere in particular. I never do.

He stopped waving the map and asked me for money, held out his little brown hand, looked hungry and sad, hunger and sadness around the eyes, in the hair.

Already.

I told him I didn’t have any change, which was true.

I did, however, have an orange. The orange was orange the way an orange should be. The boy’s shirt was blue: a short-sleeved, blue-collar, much too sober blue. I gave the boy the orange and asked if I could take his picture.

He held the orange underneath his nose, smelled it, seemed to savor it, definitely looked confused by it.

No one, I thought, had ever given him an orange. No one had thought to take his picture.

Mine turned out to be one of the best from that trip. One of the best I ever took.

Period.

I wish to fuck it didn’t exist.


Kevin Tosca lives in Paris. Find him at kevintosca.com.

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