Yesterday I sat across from a peculiar man who was reading a newspaper in a way that could only be described as violent. At his small table, he tore through the pages of the paper with all the conviction of a man possessed, as though each article were only six word stories each and reading them all was a matter of life or death. Could the stories have been so distressing that he had to look up every few moments to make sure no one was staring at him for too long? Was each article actually holding a secret message meant only for him and could only be found out through the art of “skimming”?
It certainly seemed so. Of course, he only stayed long enough for me to get in a quick blind contour of him and then promptly left in as much a whirl as he had arrived.
I never did get to find out what was in his drink.