Popeye
Popeye grabbed my shoes with his dry, dark hands. Despite the cold, they radiated heat, like they were weatherproof after decades of use. Like they were defiant to the cold and the leather he touched everyday. As he inspected the soles, I couldn’t help wondering where those hands had been. Thick, stiff, rough. No amount of soap or lotion could restore them. They had been through hell and back.
