The palm reader refused to read his palm. She took one quick look, said, no, I can’t, turned away. Why, he asked. What’s wrong? Please, don’t ask. Please, leave. Outside, he studied his hand, sniffed it quickly. Soap, sweat, garlic from lunch. Your typical hand, he thought. Footsteps crunch leaves. Across the street, a man wearing the same shirt, pants, and coat flexed his fingers.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
68: Your Typical Hand
Posted by Christian Bell at 8:00 AM
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