“I’m going out for a bag of ice, I can’t take it anymore,” Denise said, and locked the front door behind her. He had given her a set of keys last week.
He didn’t mind the heat. This city knew how to concoct a miserable summer, sure, but it had nothing on the South on those hot days.The way New Yorkers complained about summer heat, on the subway, in the bodega, made him snicker ever since he got here.There was a garbage strike then, too, his first day in the city, but it had been February. It didn’t smell as bad. This time whenever he left the vestibule downstairs, the stench was a thicket—he wanted a machete to hack through it. It was only the second day of the strike.
No comments:
Post a Comment