Kyle Channing Smith.
At the ticket counter of the bus station in Austin, I cleared my throat and conjured the dignity of a thousand proud women in distress. Black and white women with wide-brimmed hats and slim skirts. I arranged my face in an earnest yet proud expression. My eyes would connect deeply, hopefully, with the ticket seller, a woman who was ignoring me. She was a little jowly, her hair either wet from her morning shower or slicked back with a palmful of discount hair gel, a shuddering green mound of Dippity-Do. Her lips were very . . .
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