He asked for a stool to sit on to read his poems, and a woman with a neon blue streak in her hair brought him one.
It was too tall and he was embarrassed, too embarrassed to say he was too old and his joints didn’t work well enough to climb on it.
He was going to leave, just leave, just walk out the door and say “fuck it”, then another woman, he would probably tell Neil next door she was heavyset because he was judgemental like that, she noticed him staring sourly at the stool, she walked out, and came back into the little club with a camping chair.
He couldn’t even thank her because the unspoken communication was so beautiful to him he might cry.
He flopped in that camping chair and said “ouch” because the pistol was in his back pocket, and he wasn’t used to carrying a pistol, he didn’t like guns, not at all.
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