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December 06, 2005
Tundra
I remember a fellow I knew. He was working for a telephone company, going door to door. He came to a nice looking house, knocked on the door. It was answered right away by a young woman with tears in her eyes and hope on her face. Upon seeing who it was, her expression immediately turned to sadness.
The fellow knew she’d thought he was going to be someone else. Maybe her boyfriend or husband had stormed out but moments before, vowing never to return? Who knows.
‘Might not they still be coming?’ he asked. She stared at him a moment, shook her head, then shut the door. He wondered how many more knocks she would rush to answer.
He quit his job later that day.
I don't know what he saw reflected in her eyes to make him do that.
I run dirt through my fingers, dirt that is almost sand, very nearly. In the distance waves are crashing, high tide below a boundary of springy bushes that look like tumbeweeds standing still.
Posted by Sam Bowring at December 6, 2005 11:11 PM