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Wandering Souls-12

October 24, 2013

    The girl’s name was Anita Hansen.  She lived on the first floor and worked in an insurance office.  Dewey recognized her immediately.  Not that she looked so much like the lady, but from her posture and the way she held her head.  The way she looked at the world.  She was pretty, but didn’t have the lady’s great beauty.  Dewey thought that must come from the soul.
     She jumped forward, one day, to hold the elevator door when Dewey and his cane, balancing himself and a small bag of groceries, got hung up trying to get out.
     Face to face with her, the lady’s daughter, Dewey found himself flushed and choked up, his throat seized and he struggled to wheeze out, “Thank you.”
     “Can I help you…?
     “No,” Dewey said.  “No thank you.”  This time the words were loud, strident, nearly shouting and Dewey felt like a man just learning to speak, to squeeze words from his lungs’ air and spit them, raw and unmodulated, into the world.
     “All right,” she said.
     “Thanks again,” Dewey yelped and fled her, the idea of speaking to her, of giving her the message with his face flaming and his tongue gone wooden in his head.


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