The Scooter

December 4, 2012
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Where is he? It’s been quite a long time. My best guess is eight hours. I say I guess because I can’t afford a watch. I can’t afford much of anything at that. My clothes are soaked and my box is falling apart. I need to get out of this rain. The man dropped his keys as he passed by me, so I could just pop them in and drive to someplace warm and dry. But those people across the street have been there for some time now waiting for the city bus. I will take the scooter once they leave. Wait, I hear splashing. Whoever it is, they are running quite fast. It’s the man in the suit. His bright red tie is flapping over his shoulder and he has a nice leather briefcase over his head. His back is to me now. He franticly put his hand in his pocket. I know what he is looking for, but I’m not going to give them to him. He is opening his briefcase. Oh, papers all over the place. The wind just swept them all into the puddles. Now the man is frustrated. What’s this? A picture. I believe these are the man’s daughters. “May I have that please?” I look up at him. I remember my girls and how much I loved them, and how much they loved me. “I think this is what you were looking for,” I say as I hand him his picture, with the keys.

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