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Bobby

Every Tuesday morning Bobby Moore would buy 4 Cokes, 2 Slim Jims, a day old apple bear claw – if they had them – a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and some of those little waxy chocolate donuts.

He would walk to that crappy park bench on the edge of the lake by the big oak tree, the one they used to tie yellow ribbons around – they don’t do that much anymore.

He would sit on the left of the bench – always the left – peer into the big paper bag, and meticulously open all the packages.

Then he would eat.

He started with the bear claw – if they had them. He loved the way the dry, crusty, pillowy doughnut collapsed against his palate as he would bite down. It was painful and delicious at the same time.

He quickly chased each bite with gulp of fuzzy Coke, a snip of a Slim Jim, and the largest Dorito he could find. He would squint a bit and roll his eyes.

The pigeons could tell he enjoyed it. The pigeons liked Bobby, and for the most part Bobby liked the pigeons.

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