He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. He lets his head fall, chin to his chest, book falling open limp on his knee. He shifts a bit and rights himself, squinting at an ad across the aisle. He reads everything. Posters. Logos. He nods, not necessarily because he agrees. It could be that he’s remembering, some past conversation, maybe from this morning, more likely from late the night before. He shakes his head. His point wasn’t taken. He puts his glasses back on, and cocks his head to the side, taking in the contents under the seat adjacent to him: a Fairlee bottle emptied of its 100% Pure/Pur orange juice from concentrate. He swivels to look overhead. Call us at xxx-xxx-xxxx. His lips never stop moving.
READER
Caucasian male, early 20s, with short brown hair and thin sideburns, wearing glasses with red frames, grey coat, jet-black jeans, and charcoal slip-on Vans.
Fruit
Brian Francis
(ECW Press, 2004)
p 47