Buddy Jellison was just the same, all right—same dirty cooks’ whites and splotchy white apron, same black hair under a paper cap stained with either beef-blood or strawberry juice. Even, from the look, the same oatmeal-cookie crumbs caught in his ragged mustache. He was maybe fifty-five and maybe seventy, which in some genetically favored men seems to be still within the farthest borders of middle age. He was huge and shambly—probably six-four, three hundred pounds—and just as full of grace, wit, and joie de vivre as he had been four years before.
Source: Bag of Bones ▫𓂃
(echo:: @ ⌗)