89 - Autoerotic incarceration

I originally wrote this story July 4, 2020. It still seems appropriate.

As everyday, an old man sat in a ratty folding chair drinking coffee from a thermos, a brown bag at his feet, a book on his lap. Every so often, but more often than one truly reading a book, he would look up, glancing at nothing in particular. On his final, aimless sweep back to hi…

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