To say the least, they stuck out among the crowd of elderly bibliophiles and young, stay-at-home mothers also waiting for the library to unlock its doors.
ADMIT, I WAS SLIGHTLY HUNGOVER, myself, but I didn’t feel as though I looked the part, unlike the frat-boy chain smoking on the steps of the public library. His auburn hair was tousled, his eyes were red and puffy, his ill-fitting clothes were wrinkled and stained, and his skin was waxy. He was eagerly waiting for the library to open, but I couldn’t fathom why. And then there was the girl he was talking to. At first, when she initially approached him, I assumed she was a prostitute. Her shorts were far too short, her mushy white thighs were speckled with large, purple bruises, and she, too, looked painfully hungover. To say the least, they stuck out among the crowd of elderly bibliophiles and young, stay-at-home mothers also waiting for the library to unlock its doors. At one point in his conversation, the frat-boy took a seat on the concrete and removed his right shoe. He enthusiastically pointed to the sole of his bared foot, and his female friend coughed out laughter between drags from her cigarette, but I could not hear what he was saying, being that I had chosen to wait in my car, windows rolled up, and marinate in the odor of my sulfuric, early morning farts.