![]() I was certain it was the reason I was standing at baggage claim at Boston’s Logan Airport headed to the best prep school in the country for my last two years of high school. Just something I do, like take a shower or go to school. I’d said, “I draw things,” as if it were no big deal. I draw things.” He nodded his head like he couldn’t care less. “It’s permanently there.” The pity turned to something more like poorly veiled disgust. He noticed my fingernails and asked if I needed to go to “the powder room.” But it was certainly on the pity spectrum. ![]() The man looked at me with-well, pity might be a little strong. The kind that screams to the world, “We’re so important, we don’t care if you can read our logo.” It’s the kind of font you’d see on a gravestone in London. It’s the kind of font you can’t really read. I’d call it “ye oldy worldy.” But that’s just me. ![]() It was written in the same font I’d seen on their website. He had polished shoes and white gloves, holding a sign that read Wickham Hall. ![]() A man in a black suit was waiting for me. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |