The crinkled up paper he pulled from his pocket and slipped into my hand contained his cell and home phone numbers. He was average height, with a thick, trimmed, black mustache. He had a round face and wore brown, square-framed eyeglasses. When he finally approached me, I made it clear that we’d remain nothing more than friends. He had a speech impediment— he was a stutterer. Of course, when he’d strutted up in his brown and grey checkered jacket accented with that brown, wide-collared shirt, his whole outfit gave me a quick flashback: been there, done that. Remember, I’d once married a man who wore a similar getup.
The more we talked, I discovered Wilson was a chronic and habitual liar, a trait I despised. Definitely, his quality level dropped tremendously
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