I watched him as he rounded the corner, wiping the edges of
his eyes as if dust had settled in the crevices instead of salty water. He
flicked the tears like lint, disregarding the weight, its salinity and
reflection. His sweater bagged at the shoulders; the plastic hanger in his
closet at home at fault for stretching the thin-weave cotton that failed to
keep the chill of the wind away at night. The edges of his mind dragged too,
weighed down with the worries of those who habitually check their bank accounts
online, pray silently as they approach the mailbox hoping for a check to have
arrived, some sustenance.
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