On the sidewalk across from me, near the entrance to a barbecue joint, some people were holding an old-fashioned revival meeting. The barbecue cook, wearing a dirty white apron, his conked hair reddish and metallic in the pale sun, and a cigarette between his lips, stood in the doorway, watching them. Kids and older people paused in their errands and stood there, along with some older men and a couple of very tough-looking women who watched everything that happened on the avenue, as though they owned it, or were maybe owned by it.
| Game | Time | WPM | Accuracy |
|---|---|---|---|
| 59316 | 2019-12-06 13:46:54 | 66.77 | 97% |
| 57368 | 2019-06-30 15:01:26 | 67.89 | 97% |
| 56801 | 2019-06-14 15:21:05 | 74.10 | 98% |
| 56549 | 2019-06-04 13:04:55 | 64.21 | 97% |
| 54864 | 2019-04-13 16:12:12 | 61.58 | 96% |
| 52762 | 2019-02-08 13:12:37 | 68.60 | 97% |