Men Who Walk Dogs
At six in the morning. A man of a certain age, who will rise while it is dark and dress in flat-front beige chinos and an oxford-cloth shirt made mint-green in cotton/poly, his comb-over tending to greasy (They're natural oils, he'd say with the grin his mother loved when he was a child.) They were good boys; now they are good men walking dogs past me every morning. A different kind of man would notice me sitting at my desk. A subset of that kind would offer a wave, and a subset of that would have some agenda beyond simple greeting. I can't help wondering about the ones who aren't nice. It's a blog. I have to keep reminding myself.
