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An Encounter, by Brent McKnight

I ran errands at the Galleria to kill time on my day off, wading aimlessly from store to store through the tide of shoppers. It was an awkwardly arranged upscale strip mall—Barnes & Noble, Anthropologie, Apple Store, a nicely maintained decorative waterfall surrounded by wrought iron benches. For the first time in over a week, the sun was out, and it was warm enough that I got away with just wearing a t-shirt, though I carried a jacket with me. The light exhaust of incoming and outgoing traffic caught in the back of my throat.

It was my day off. If I had my way, I would have preferred to work every day, but my manager threw a fit when I tried. I even worked three Christmases in a row because I couldn’t figure out how else to fill my time. Like most alcoholics I knew, I did whatever I could to keep from drinking. No matter how desolate it seemed it was better than the alternative.

I should have used the time to visit my dad. The shopping excursion was a poorly justified attempt to avoid it. He wouldn’t miss me. Besides, anymore he wasn’t the person who took me to the beach as a kid, taught me to skip rocks instead of throwing them at birds.

“Barrett.” It was a voice I hadn’t heard in a while calling my name, and I stopped. In fact the last time I heard it, I was being told in no uncertain terms to fuck off. 

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