PETER BANKSTON STOOD ON a stepladder at the chalkboard behind the cash registers, trying to draw an elf. He'd come to work an hour early to create this Christmas drawing: a group of shady-looking elves playing poker with Santa Claus, with the elves in the background trading glances and the one in the foreground holding a Valerie's Java Shop gift certificate behind his back. After reducing several pieces of green, red, and tan chalk to nubs, he still wasn't satisfied—the hand clutching the certificate looked more like a claw. He drew and erased, drew and erased. He got down from the stepladder and scrubbed his hands at the sink, studying his knuckles, fingers, palms, nails. They got a smaller rush of customers than usual, since today was the day after Thanksgiving. By nine o'clock the place was empty again, the sun streaming through the plate-glass windows. Peter wiped the tables, swept the floor, refilled the creamers, and then unfolded the stepladder and climbed up to his drawing. He peered at the elf's hand, studying his own hand, flexing his wrist, wiggling his fingers. About a minute later, he felt a blast of cold air behind him but didn't turn around, figuring Cesar could handle the customer. Then a familiar-sounding voice called up, "I always wondered who did those drawings. Gazing up at him from the other side of the counter, with his hands tucked in the front pockets of his blue jeans, stood the most regular of his regular customers—a fortyish-looking man with a pale face and wavy brownish hair, Gay Einbrecher Rape Porno delicate build, and small brown eyes. Instead of Gay Einbrecher Rape Porno usual business suit, the customer wore a brown tweed jacket and a white collared shirt. Peter got down from the stepladder, brushed the chalk dust off his hands, and took his place by his register. I graduated three years ago. Peter was too surprised to answer, and the man, taking Peter's silence as a yes, brought out his cell phone and asked him for his address and number. Peter gave him the information and watched him type it in. The man was still looking down at the device when he asked, casually, what time he should pick Peter up. Peter tried mumbling out Gay Einbrecher Rape Porno protest—"but wouldn't it be easier if I met you there? Before he left he gave Peter his business card. In elegant black letters, against textured, cream-colored paper, gleamed the name Donald Mantei. When Peter looked up from the business card, the man was gone. For weeks he makes sure he stands in your line, talks to you every day, comes here on his day off on purpose to ask you out, and all he wants is dinner. Well, I've got news for you, girl—he wants you for dinner. You look like you could use a square meal. You tell me you're lonely; you tell me you haven't been on a date since you moved here; but when a respectable-looking man comes into the store and asks you out, suddenly you're all like, 'Ew, he's too old It's time you got outta the house, girl. So be a man and go. Cesar took his post by the espresso machines, and Peter, shaken, rang the customers up. But at least Cesar had given Peter an inspiration. As soon as the shop was empty again, Peter got out the stepladder, climbed up to his drawing, and erased the elf's index finger. He redrew it so that it looked like the finger Cesar had pointed at him—long, upraised, and firm with resolve. He got down from the ladder and beheld his finished drawing, his best effort since he'd started working here five months ago. If only he could handle men the way he could handle this piece of chalk. As soon as he got home, at around four o'clock, the last bit of daylight seeping in, he rummaged through the cardboard box he used as a bureau and pulled out his green crewneck sweater and tan slacks, the only decent clothes he'd brought to San Francisco. He went upstairs and took a shower, wiping the tiles scrupulously after he was finished; then he got dressed and headed back downstairs, plopped down on his mattress, and began to tie his shoes. A shoelace snapped. His clock radio read nine minutes to six. He scrambled for one of his sneakers, yanked out the lace, and with fumbling fingers, forced it through the holes of his brown Entdecke weitere Bücher des Autors, sehe ähnliche Autoren, lese Buchempfehlungen und vieles mehr. Um die Gesamtbewertung der Sterne und die prozentuale Aufschlüsselung nach Sternen zu berechnen, verwenden wir keinen einfachen Durchschnitt. Stattdessen berücksichtigt unser System beispielsweise, wie aktuell eine Bewertung ist und ob der Prüfer den Artikel bei Amazon gekauft hat. Es wurden auch Bewertungen analysiert, um die Vertrauenswürdigkeit zu überprüfen.
You Are Here By Chris Delyani iUniverse, Inc. Desperate to win him back, Miles wanders the streets in the hope of running into Stuart again. His ability to craft an authentic soul baring story and ensure you lose yourself and keep you engrossed from the very first page is absolutely masterful. T he calls came at three in the morning sometimes, the bleating of the phone tearing Fred Pascente out of a deep sleep. Sometimes the first stop was O'Hare or Midway to meet a flight; he had Homeland Security clearance for access to secure parts of both airports. What he did, he did, and that's why he was out there on the road at seventy-two years old instead of in a beachside condo in Florida or a house on the edge of a golf course in Vegas.
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