Modus Operandi
The madras dragon with the dog-gold eyes is waving. And so, once again, I go to his table. The dark-haired young man stood in the back of the restaurant. Leaning against the wall abutting the kitchen, he loosened his copper-toned bow tie, smoothed the wrinkles in his matching cummerbund and pleated trousers, and contemplated the restaurant’s ubiquitous brownness from beneath the glow of the wall’s torchiere light fixture. If not for his white shirt, he thought, he could blend in with one of the mahogany, faux-leather booths. A complete and perfect...
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