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Shell of a Man P.2

He knew he was getting older. His house looked like the house his parents used to own in Miami, because the nail clipper, like everything else, was exactly where he expected it to be. Next to the bottle of light-green toothpaste in the medicine cabinet with the sliding mirror doors that took a good shove to open.

Even his toilet had a furry pink slip-cover which greeted his rear when he sat down. ‘Christ,’ he thought. ‘This bathroom could be blue. It could be anything but this pepto-bismal pink.’ The wall paper was coming off at every corner.

He clipped one nail.

Then another.

His right hand first. Started on his second. When he got to his left ring finger he slipped and cut his finger tip. The clipper was dropped and he gripped his finger prematurely before the pain set in.

And he waited. Waited for the shock, the sting, a spot of blood. But none came.

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