#3 (Part I)

#3 The Man with the Newspaper (Part I)

     Someone sitting beside me moved, and the cushion under me moved as well.  The same someone bumped my arm.  I heard the distinct crackle newsprint has when it is being folded back for the first time, when it is still fresh and un-creased.  “I came for the Toothpick Journal.” 
     The voice is cultured, foreign.  British?  I lifted my head to blink bleary eyes at the man.  He is tall, crisp as the pages his eyes skimmed over.  His business shirt is pristine and clean.  His skin . . . his skin was like looking at my reflection in the window.  Pallid.  The lights were still dim in the cabin.  I attributed the color of his skin to the bad lighting.  He had green eyes.  Beautiful, crystalline, green eyes that skimmed the page in unhurried sweeps. 
     He turned the newspaper page.
     I found my tongue.  “I don’t have it yet. Did you want to come along?”
     His gaze shifted to me. 

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