daveyjones

You watch him.   His parents swept the concrete clean about a half hour ago, everyone's left except for you. The party hats are in the bin, so're the left over party pies, you're waiting for a ride.   You watch him.   What you notice is his hands, nails bitten into waxen lumps, creases like deep folds in a heavy cloth. He's got them sitting in his lap. And he's lookin' at them. Starin' at them, even. Shakin' a little. His hair is ruffed from all the people wishin' him a happy birthday. His shoulders hunched over from years of kickin' the dust.   You feel sorry for him, but what can you do? You've paid your respects. You got what you c