Wednesday 24 December 2014

It Was Habit

             A hick town. He didn't like hick towns. He uncramped his legs, slid out into the aisle soon enough to seem to be one of the surge without being of it. Only someone who was aware, as he was, would know he was alone, separate.  The hayseeds that he'd traveled with out of kansas city across the plains into mountain land didn't know. The yokels sagging on the concrete loading slab in back of ths dump station didn't know. It was habit that shoved his right hand into his coat pocket as he stepped off the bus. Not nervousness. He had no nerves ; caution yes,but no nerves.

Dorothy B. Hughes
Ride the Pink Horse

Patrick Joust

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