The honest man

“I believe she loves me, my mum,” he said. “But not deep enough. That’s my feeling.”

His was a head of tight curls, blond, almost white. On his lap, a duffel bag, his arms around it.

“You know when I was having the nightmares – don’t take this wrong, I didn’t know you then – but you know when you asked for my birth date? I thought it was you practising black magic on me.”

He rested his head on the glass, watched the cars pass. His arm must have ached; it had been a long discussion.

“Hello? Bye. Bye. Hello? Hello?”

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