Soul of an Old Man

It was the kind of day where fallen rain crept up pant legs. When your feet are inexplicably wet and you feel wet and cold the entire day. He was the kind of guy who needed to get married. He could live on his own, anyone could if necessity fated it, but he was too lonely a soul. Peculiar, though, he was an early riser. And he went to bed early as well. Early to rise, early to bed, makes one healthy, wealthy and wise, but socially dead. So you could imagine his problem.

He wore baggy clothes. The kind resembling those of the early, mid-90’s. Sometimes I could’ve sworn he was swimming in them. Hand-me-downs from a giant friend? I never bothered to ask. But he was happy, so I suppose swimming in one’s clothes wasn’t too much of a concern for him. [Though he was certainly the malleable type for fashion that drives girls wild.] He was happy, sitting on the edge of the couch cushion, holding a dinner plate mounded with mash. That’s the best way to describe it. An almost foreboding pile of snow peas and rice and grilled chicken, corn and something else. I couldn’t tell exactly.

Sometimes I would watch him from across the room. He moved slowly. As if the soul of an old man were stuck inside his body. And that old man had been out in the rain running an errand or two. As if, soaked to the bone, the old man put a fresh pair of socks on and was currently waiting for his body to warm up.

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