Like a Drawn Bow

Her posture, more than straight, recurved, like a bow drawn, if not to fire, at least to readiness, a posture filled with anticipation, though all around her, at every other table, people are slouched and hunched, unknowingly confessing their inferiority according to a measure that they do not yet recognize, and though the man who hovers near her, leaving and returning, an old man, perhaps her father, holds himself carelessly too, his hand-knit toque slipping crookedly across his forehead, the velcrow hanging loose on his boots.


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