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January 26, 2012
He was sipping McDonalds coffee placidly, people watching. Most of his face was behind a wooden support beam. Every time he rapidly turned his head, he sabotaged his calm demeanor. Sometimes I would get an eye, other times his face would remain wholly concealed. I tried not to look too often because I didn't want to stare. The man to my right, sitting with his back to me in a booth, was about my dad's age. He was fiddling with his palm pilot as he ate: the plastic surface awash in dirty fingerprints. I concentrated on my fruit and maple.