Cris DD

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A solitary man is seated, hunched in concentration. But is he checking out his social standing on a phone or reading a Proustian novel?

He could be waiting with purpose or whiling away an hour before he heads home with a heavy heart. Perhaps he’s hiding something that he doesn’t want to share and won’t do me any good to know the truth.

I’m drawn by the shapes and lines and colours, though I’m not sure if we’re in a factory, or if that peeling paint is on another building close enough to touch. We could be looking out or looking in.

I dare not consider whether what’s inside that bag with the yellow drawstring, because I can already imagine the pickaxe that he cradles in his hands. And I try not to wonder any longer, because if I think too hard I’ll stay awake half the night, afraid to turn off the light.

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