Cycles of the Turnstiles

; the click of the black heels, the skirt and skin tightly fitting the curve before the steel bar, left hands with lustrous black nail polish clutching the leather mouth of the bag; the musky smell emanating from the red polo shirt, denim as faded as the fabric of the shoes; the little slippers keeping dirty toenails away from the floor, not bothering anything else he wore; the big cardboard box sliding out first before the toasted brown soles of the feet, the smell of fresh pandesal from breakfast, the floral patterns of roses, tiger lilies, santan, gumamela on a blue background; the gray seams sweeping the tiles, dust and fallen hair accumulating like tumbleweed; the untied shoelaces getting stepped on, the careless slant of the tongues, the gleam of silver and gold on the sides, the white socks peeking, holding the ankles, the lanky legs that shorts could not accommodate; the cane being a third foot, the pants on its third fold tucked in, the third scar of the surgery; the apparition of whatever color that was, or if there was ever a color to take note of; the definite navy blue of a uniform, the fluorescent bulb gleaming on the leather and buckle;

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