Before it became Ralph’s Highway Shoppette, the building was Mr. Wilson’s workshop, a giant space filled to the rafters with old machines in various stages of disrepair, and a squalor of parts that pushed beyond the confines of the workshop and into the living space of the attached apartment. Mrs. Wilson had given up trying to tame the clutter and settled for the small places left her. Her husband sat for meals without bothering to remove his grease-covered grey-blue overalls. She was a handsome woman with thick dark hair veiling deep brown eyes. He was handsome, too, underneath the grime.
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