Sunday 2 July 2017

Spit-take

I hear it somewhere behind me: a liquidy expulsive sound.  I'm sitting on a patio inches from a sidewalk.  Flinching, I'm unable to see through the shrub at my shoulder, but the origin of the noise slouches up the street, past my elbow, in all his denimed, tractor-capped glory.

"Sorry," he mutters.

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