By Rachele Salvini
Take one of those terraced houses in London, where the kitchen is not even a room but just the end of the corridor. The plastic table is put somewhere in a corner, and the mood is so depressing that no one would really like to end their day eating a microwaved meal there.
I mean, the setting is not really important. I would like you to imagine that it’s just dark. All the furniture, the decoration, the doors opening on other rooms, the smell of the food are not important. The room is dimly lit–and that’s it.
My name may be Jack and I may be twenty-seven years old. I may be a lawyer. Or a teacher. Or whatever. Even if you may think this is quite important information, actually it’s not, because this story is not about me, and it does not matter who I am exactly. Not yet, at least. I’m not even in the room I am talking about.
Let’s see, how to put it: I am kind of Jiminy Cricket Asshole that judges and comments every human action. You may call it a sort of conscience. And today, I would like to talk about cheating. This whole story is, actually, about cheating
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Although based in the US, where Rachele Salvini is earning her PhD in English and Creative Writing, she is an Italian student writing in English. Her work in English has been published on Takahe Magazine, Erotic Review, Litro UK, Miracle Monocle, Aerogramme Writers’ Studio and others.