orange

the hague, 2015

“You’re okay?” orange-proud Dutch colleague scans my father up and down doubtfully. Potential concern.

Papa nods vigorously, either in excessive certainty or dyskinesia, and lifts his thumb valiantly before his chest.

“I’m good.”

He lets his fist fall back down. The side of his palm hits the box in his pocket, making a rattling sound.

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