Writing and Blog

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He had a mouth like a drawstring purse, done up tight. His hair was white, cut close to the bone, razored across the back in a regimentally straight line. His suit was summer-weight, beige, and it hung on him like someone else’s skin.

He pushed a lawnmower ahead of him in short, powerful shoves. It would roll two or three feet, and he’d walk, momentarily freed, behind it. When he caught up with it, he’d send it flying again.
“Wait till he hits the downhill,” the woman next to me at the bus stop said. I nodded, eyes straining, but the 71D pulled up to block our view.
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