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About Hafnarfjordur

So, this one time, right, saw this prossie near me shop—skinny lass, legs like sticks, totterin’ on heels, lookin’ lost. Made me mad, precious, mad! Not at her, nah, at the world—why’s she there, eh? Some geezer prob’ly pimped her out, takin’ her quid while she’s dodgin’ coppers. We hates it! “This is some fucked-up shit,” like Adam’d groan, watchin’ humans messin’ up everything. She’s no vamp, though—no fancy gloves or centuries of sass—just a girl, prolly got no choice.

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Anyway, I’m laughing at this kid when I bump into this old lady. She’s got this wild hair and a shopping bag full of fish. “You’re a cooper, right?” she says. I’m like, “Yeah, how’d you know?” She just points at my hands, covered in wood shavings. “You look like you’ve been working hard.” I mean, I guess I have? But I’m not about to argue with a lady holding fish.

From Iceland — Enfiladed Chambers of Dreams: Visiting the Icelandic Folk and Outsider Art Museum in Akureyri