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like, november?

Robert Rado

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November.
Redundancy.

It’s almost night, I’m on the Q3 bus, coming home from town, and I find myself resting my eyes on a fellow passenger. For no good reason.

(Appeal? Disgust? Too much of something? A disturbing memory? Fly open? Carrying a live hen? Humming to himself? Looking like my father — perhaps. The way my father once looked. Not that I remember much of him.)

And he then gets off the bus — through the back door — at the stop right before the disused railway bridge. I still have twenty minutes to get to my stop. I wish he hadn’t got off.

(My dad telephoned me from the desert last night. He said he had his doubts. And that it was ridiculously hot in the desert. He failed to specify his doubts. And I have reason to believe he passed away not much after the call.)

November is always a redundancy.

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