You walk into a dark, musty hardware store and see ten, maybe twenty men wandering aimlessly through the aisles of screws, nuts, bolts, and tools. Each one is muttering something, but they’re not muttering the same things so you mostly just hear noise from the collective sound waves bouncing around the wooden shelves. A man brushes past and you faintly hear him whisper to himself, “Milk, French bread, something else.”
You spot your father shuffling his feet out of the “Paint” aisle, a used paint stirrer dripping SW6364 Eggwhite onto the scuffed concrete floor. His hair is a mess. The rings around his eyes make Sephora employees jealous.
“Dad?” You say as you wave to get his attention.
All of the men within earshot suddenly stop walking and muttering as they turn to look at you.
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