The Elderly Do Know Best
You sit in a worn, leather chair besides a small table, awaiting your sweltering bowl of clam chowder. Tapping your wrinkly fingers on the flower pattern of the couch, you wait impatiently. You rub the wisps of gray hair on your chin, meeting the eyes of passersby, giving them a certain maniacal grin. A middle-aged woman comes to your assistance, holding a steaming bowl, light mist drifting from the surface of the chowder.
“Where have you been?” you bark once seeing her, “I’m not getting any younger!”
She merely gives you a phony smile, just as she was told to, and hands the bowl over to you, warning, “Be careful! It’s hot!” in that sickly-sweet voice.
Before you process the words, your fingers wrap around the sizzling clay of the bowl. “What the hell?” you wail, furiously.
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