Wednesday, July 31, 2013


He was a humorless man, grey haired and semi nervous, standing with practiced nonchalance in the wake of boutique process. He had ordered the bicycle in an attempt to treat himself, or so he had himself, and others, so convinced, yet the sparkling machine before him said nothing of breezy commutes to meaningful days of noble toil and earning. It was a metal betrayal. 

And we could all see it. 

He forced an easy distance from the shopkeeper if that's what he could be called, satchel sling over one shoulder and nervous eyes of indeterminate half exotic descent flitting from one shiny component to the next, customer and carbon treated in the same dull glance. 

He was a buyer. 

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