James sauntered out the door to his house and strolled
towards the bus stop. While on duty, he was all lines and creases; no uniform
was as well-pressed nor was anyone’s chest as thrust out. On his day off
though, his shoulders slumped, his paunch stuck out, and his old, muted clothes
sat on him like the drooping arms of a dead weeping willow. His hands were
calloused from work, but his trimmed nails were full of Friday’s dirt. He
couldn’t be bothered to clean up, that was something that happened every night
between Sunday and Thursday. Saturday was his.
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