Monday, December 10, 2007

Bloor Line, big hands holding a small jacket.

Caucasian male, late 20s, with short blonde hair, wearing polished black boots and camouflage jacket.

George Orwell, Coming Up for Air (Penguin)

Page 52:

All snakes stung, according to Mother, and when I quoted the penny encyclopedia to the effect that they didn't sting but bit, she only told me not to answer back.
He's in the driveway, half in the car, leaning to collect something from the passenger seat, paused and looking back through the windshield. The winter wind licks at his lower back, his jacket riding up, his seasonal padding rolling over the top of his dress pants. He hates dress pants, hates going to work, hates it more that he's his own boss. Because today his wife is standing in the driveway too, glaring through the windshield, telling him that she won't ask again, she wants it done and before he leaves. And all he can think about is that if he didn't have people counting on him he'd call in sick, sit around all day, fantasize about a life without dress pants.

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