“Eight thirty,” Josie said, because she knew it was probably true.
“Thanks,” the man said, but in a way that implied he was a paying guest and she was some kind of bike-path clock keeper—that she worked on the path and was in charge of time. She thought of the bicycle man in her town, the one responsible for the maiming, the furious and florid sense of themselves these men felt. I am wearing these clothes and have gone fast. Move from my path. Fix my teeth. Tell me the time.
Source: Heroes of the Frontier by Dave Eggers »
Tagged in: men
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