I wondered what was trailing in his wake.
He was tan, older — thick white hair, bushy white moustache — banana-yellow T-shirt and off-white shorts. He jogged along, trying to meet the bus at its next stop. The driver waited for him. He got on, took a transfer — I never saw him pay the fare —and sat down. He had the air of a man who had inadvertently left without his wallet, who hadn’t been planning on taking the bus, someone who had needed to leave where he’d been in a hurry and had caught the bus because it was conveniently there.
I wondered what was trailing in his wake. Comments are closed.
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"Classic"
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