On a park bench- Eeshan Jhingran

The old man turned towards me, his weary eyes bore into my skull. I stammered a hello. He cockily sighed, “not confident enough,” then, he resumed observing the clear lake in front of us. “Excuse me sir, but would you care to explain your attitude towards my greeting?” I asked. I was fascinated by his quirk, randomly dissing a stranger. “I was hoping for a better greeting, not a stammering fool; I’ve heard that there is a nomadic writer who exudes confidence in every conversation he takes part in. I’m a fan of his work, I’ve been tracking the stories about him and it seemed like this town was going to be his next destination.” I was surprised by this, “well sir, just because I’m no nomadic writer, that doesn’t mean you should be so dismissive.” Again, the old man bore his weary eyes into my own.

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