I’m not Miss. Bovary (extract) / By Zyba Hysa

I’m not Miss. Bovary

– extract

 

By: Zyba Hysa

That day she had abstained permission from work. As soon as her children left for school she thought to help around the house and go for the book’s distribution in schools, but when you don’t have a fancy for getting down to work. You watch TV or sleep. That’s why she kept morning through the house with crossing arms she reminded her friend’s words that had said: Go to “May (school) Flower” school. The school director was an intellectual and kind person of art and literature. She had said “go” she took a bath dot dressed hastily put lipstick on her lips without racking the brain of colour and shape. She took her bag, got out and went the flat’s dawn stairs running, as if she had made on haw appointment and didn’t want to be late. She met the san since in the first dawn step that seemed, as it was stretching his head from behind the mountain, swing beautiful views of these coastal cities that the night had taken away for several hours, throwing on the other (hand) side of the world. Therefore she made slower the steps and began to walk like the lost.
The san appeared full and energy and surprisingly a spark of joy, light, she was obliged to jump across the ponds here and there, in peripheral streets of the city and had to take care not be ended in any opened cesspool, or avoided spots completely sediment, that cars picked up passing by.
After a while she thought to have a good start this day and she tried to digress and began to hurry up. Shi resembled like a fruit with a hard puling, but she herself didn’t understand where the sparkling joy came from did. Perhaps from this magic morning of the beginning work, or perhaps she wasn’t to run for catching the work lens, or perhaps … she was bring provoked in her soul like the bird pecks the egg’s shell, to escape from slavery and start a new life. She had already forgotten where she was going to, but her fut. led her in front of the school door. She was ashamed carrying a bag full of books and she that moment she envied them and thought “hew nice” the beggars aren’t ashamed because they call “the begging” work, but intellectual are ashamed to beg then mind’s value. She would get home at once, but a moon’s Iowa came to herself.

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