He rutted a path in the sagging wood floor, scarred the tired
counter with the edges of his Masonic ring. He had outlived them all, sold
sacks of sugar to grandkids and great grandkids of the people he used to know,
the people that built this old shanty town. Most left in favor of city shine
and the hope of a better life, but they’d all return, make their annual pilgrimage
to Old Towne. They’d visit the swap meet, grab a soda from the General Store,
take pictures with the weathered signs to show their city-slick friends who’d
find the décor kitschy and cute. But not Ed; Ed never left, assuming slow pace
and consistent conversation offered him more than rat-race isolation and shiny things.
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