He Walks

He walks. Each shuffle step covers a thousand miles, and the scraping sound of leather shoe against asphalt wears away at his pride like high grit sandpaper. Someone makes eye contact with him. It’s fleeting, and he sees the familiar in every face he passes as it confirms he exists only for a moment at a time before receding again and again into the ether, an apparition. He holds out a cup. It’s Styrofoam, and there are teeth marks all around the rim as if someone had systematically nibbled at it hoping to find a secret pocket of flavor, only to wind up back at their starting point, leaving only a perforated zero in their wake. He shakes it, and it jingles quietly. Dimes and pennies dance and kiss and bounce off of each other within the depths of the cup, but no matter how long or hard he shakes them they never seem to reproduce. The light changes.

Notes: The goal of this exercise was to alternate between short and long sentences.

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