Intuition

brokeglass

 

She steps into the sun-baked garden of the pub with hesitant feet.  A toss of her head pushes away the scent of stale beer and allows pricklish anger to reclaim her skin.

Only three tables are occupied, so it takes seconds for her to notice the old man.  As she watches him hunched over a pint, she wishes again that it had taken a few more.  He’s like a vulture in the last days of his life, swooping down and snatching away every rehearsed line and gesture.

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