His Eyes Said It All

Hell-Betty and I were walking down from Penelope Pennyworth’s Photographs, where she works, to the Washoe Club to meet her brother Bert the Hurt for a beer. We were chatting about our day, paying little mind to the visitors that filled the wood boardwalk.

As we passed the open doorway to the Silver Queen Hotel, a Latino man of about thirty came flying down the narrow staircase, nearly running the both of us down. It wasn’t like he meant to — he was just in a hurry and didn’t have the time to think that perhaps two or more people might be crossing in front of the door during his sudden escape.

Out of the doorway, he practically flew, chattering in his native tongue. His eyes were wide with surprise and fright behind his yellow lensed glasses.

“You would think he saw a ghost or something,” my friend quipped.

Hell-Betty and I laughed, knowing he probably did because we both witnessed that peculiar look before.

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