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ggles and ear protectors back on and resumes sanding some
wood. I can't see what he's making, but I want nothing more at that
awkward, embarrassing moment than to be in a hole deep underground.
For the next 45 minutes, I practice furiously. I am determined to
be graceful, dammit. Then I notice him, standing outside his workshop
door, smoking. Sweat is pouring off his face and neck and arms, making
river tracks in the sawdust coating him.
He's watching me skate, just watching...and I feel funny. He smiles
warmly and waves again and -- and I skate across the street to him.
"Hi, Judy!"
His voice gives me shivers when he says my name.
"Hi. What are you making?"
"Another bookcase. Outgrew the others already. I can't pass up a
bookstore."
"Are you going to paint it?" Why am I asking him that? To prolong
the dialogue.
He shakes his head, exhaling smoke. "Clear finish. I love seeing
the grain in wood."
"I guess you have a lot of books."
"Couple of hundred, anyhow. I think they breed when I'm not
watching them."
I giggle at that word: "Breed."
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