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Several images competed for space in Walter's mind as he walked along the sidewalk. In every store window, he caught different versions of his own reflection. Most seemed to be perfect strangers to him.
There was an older bald guy with the goatee that walked beside him in the glass from time to time. Walt thought of him as mid-life crises man. Well maybe, he thought darkly, it was end life crises man instead.
Other times, there was a similar looking guy whose face was filled with sadness, and maybe a little desperation. This man's walk screamed hopelessness and resignation. The gait of a beaten man.
Almost, when he finally thought he was seeing his own true reflection, the sky darkened and a monster turned to face him from a cafe's window. The burning eyes of a killer looked back at him. They mocked him. They hated him.
Walt's hands were already on the newspaper box, his knuckles white with effort from trying to pick it up, when he found a measure of control. He was relieved that the box was anchored to the sidewalk. Otherwise, he would have sent it crashing through his own reflection.
But now the whipped man looked sheepishly back at him from the window as he fumbled in his pocket for change. Glancing around to see if anyone was looking, he grabbed a paper and entered the small restaurant for a late breakfast.
