Shaking words, "just shows you the boss is listening", referring to the rain and God and our complaints. His teeth are really everywhere, leaning in every direction, swinging when he speaks.
The light is somewhere between his ear and balding skull, coming in to shine in my eyes, in that place where magicians find quarters and handkerchiefs. It is blinding his face from me. Maybe he is Jesus. Might mistake him for homeless outside, but here, he finds the perfect Assam, like a king, pointing, chin up, summoning forth each tin, too fat, too skinny, just right. He smells it tenderly, Sessa, over and over, as I count up change for his fifty dollar bill.
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