Walked home yesterday, thinking of a thousand ordeals that were waiting for me (writing, editing, then repeat), when I noticed this couple on the Hills Road intersection next to the Catholic church. He’s in a wheelchair—80-ish or more, frail, talkative—she (early 80s or around) was standing behind him, holding on the back.
He’s unstoppable—boisterous and bubbly, almost spinning his head around; she’s trying to calm him down—or was just tired of him being a chatterbox.
Then, a second before the light turned green, I spotted a black hairpin that kept one of the longest locks of his white mane in place; she had a similar one in the same place on her grey hair. The light had finally turned green, he kept blabbing, while she was pushing his chair—with accurately acute strength.
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