I’ve never stolen anything in my life, with the exception of the heart of a night shop manager. For a while I saw him between quarter past two and twenty past two every night. After a few weeks, the night shop manager said, “I Love you,” and handed me an expired bag of salty chips.
The next night the night shop manager was replaced by another night shop manager. Since then I have in vain tried to become a kleptomaniac.
I only want to steal things I don’t desire. Babies, Ikea art , Switzerland. Or the old blanket in my grandfather’s trunk. He said you rarely know in advance when you have to dump a body for a close friend.
Perhaps the night shop manager was the best friend I ever had. Sometimes I search for him, on an English website full of portraits of people that don’t exist.
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