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Bus Story: Running a Pattern

April 5, 2013

Houndstooth. Mid-thigh length, worsted wool houndstooth. And a black fedora. Or maybe a homburg, I get those two mixed up sometimes. He ran hard for the bus, an odd grin affixed to his very round face. Panting, he drops into a seat and looks very pleased with himself, that odd smile still there, unchanged and unmoving. He checks his watch, pulls a worn notebook and makes a notation with a very shiny gold pen, and settles back for the ride. Very soon, I see his eyes drooping and he sways a bit, as though an insurmountable tiredness has washed over him like the tide wearing down a sandcastle. I get it. When you run fast enough to time travel forward from the early 1960’s, it can leave you a bit worn out.

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