Strange bird that optometrist, finding it exceedingly difficult to look a man in the eye. Cornered by his apparatus. Rapid anticipation in the converse — a firing range, watch out those bullets whizzing overhead. Does he shave the scone every morning? Mustard trousers he had worn on the last appointment, and not outside the realms the one before that four years ago. Wednesdays maybe... Would not be too difficult to check. Tall, good trim. Gay you’d guess, without the protective pics with his daughters over the desk. In the papers after one of those sudden tragic losses there would be no way back here, no braving it and continuing for this eye doc. Good finally to at least manage the quip with the Westcoast receptionist in his hearing. Biden? With Bernie outta the picture?… She decided she would let it blow over… Oh, shelter in place, for now?… (Plenty supercell in those gathering clouds of course, no joke.)
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