Friday, December 14, 2007


From Mr. Stark's seat on the ferry, his view of the steely sea was obstructed by a greasy spot on the window where a recent passenger had, apparently rested his or her head. Mr. Stark was bent over a newspaper cone of flavored sunflower seeds, which he dug one hand into while with the other, he inexpertly attempted to remove a staple in an old manuscript by wedging a short, grubby fingernail between the metal and the paper. His neck was bent forward at an odd angle in relation to the rest of his body, giving his general contour a shape resembling some plumbing component with a strange name. Although he didn't notice it, he was being scrutinized by a pair of giggly teenaged girls across the deck, who, hands shoved deep in the pockets of their mini-skirts, whispered about how he uncannily reminded them of their former geometry teacher, who had abruptly left school one spring to pursue his passion of charting the migration of the artic tern. They were outside, on the other side of the greasy glass, huddled together, the breeze whirling through their fishnets. This scene would continue, as described, for a full fourteen more minutes before the ferry pulled into the dock.

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