We sat at a table after work, drinking pitchers of beer, telling stories, and venting our disgust with the ******* in charge of much of our lives.
He spoke up, for a change, a normally quiet, mild mannered worker bee of a man, and said, “I’ve got a lot of venom built up in me.”
We stared into our beer glasses, no one saying anything, except two of the women, who laughed at him, then continued talking.
I’ll never forget how his face looked like a mountain ***** stripped after a landslide, the naked granite beneath cracked and grey, standing silent after the roar of debris, but still seeming to quiver as though a second layer might soon peel and fall.