Nelson’s impression of the young woman was a round door knob, made of brass, not unattractive, but with a slight tarnish. She looked too young to suffer from dullness of any sort although her face was somehow longer than it should have been and her eyelids hung down like two Venetian blinds. Impressions were Nelson’s bread and butter. He could not have survived that many years as a Housing Operator without trusting his.
How do the houses look the same? They look sad, sad and quiet. The gutters have fallen. The pigeon shit covering the roofs and walls is thick, like old paint. Or rather, it peels like old paint. Pigeon shit peels. That’s something most people don’t know.
She shifted her bottom on the wooden chair and asked him two more questions without pause in between.
Yes, I notice bird shit and yes, I repeat things. That’s the way I talk.
Her formality was both familiar to Nelson and irritating.
Could you allow me time to answer your questions without interruption? You ask them too quickly, like a squirrel with a mouthful of nuts.
She said something else.
Oh, I don’t know. That made sense to me, a squirrel with nuts in her mouth, how that might sound. That’s what came to my mind.