“I don’t wanna see your face” were the last words that came out of the mounting frustration. Her eyes looked blurred, I checked mine, and it was her tears causing the distress. I stormed away, wondering why it didn’t happen the better away. I looked at myself in the rear; the sun shined beside and mine didn’t. The extra grown hair restrained the light beneath. I took a stop at the saloon. It was brimming with the weekend crowd. An elderly person was leaving the place as I settled on a seat in the waiting room. He pulled the door with all his might and appeared before the mixed pile of slippers. Since the age and the numbers failed his sense of matching, he stood there for a moment, puzzled. I continued observing him. His best solution was to wear the same side of different pairs.
The limping movement took him minutes to disappear from the door’s frame, and I felt guilty. Minutes passed and a lady appeared searching the ground; an old lady. The old man emerged from behind, still drooping. The doors resisted the voice, but the light revealed. She had come to find his match, and she was the match.
I opened the text page, sent her a “hey”.
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