The downtown girls go clickety-clack, lights winking, thieves slinking out of shadows and their own skin. Don’t the horns matter, rhythms of sweet sex and farewells? Step ferocious. Dark of the moon while the liars tell their mothers just enough. What oozes out of the night? Hunger in a tweed coat, artificial intelligence, micro-waved popcorn, lust. This one smells of lemon soap and beer. That one’s losing hair. The men of authority admire their shiny shoes as a cold wind razors down the avenues where nobody’s selling mercy.
She took her lithe desperation undid the knots and tossed it from the bridge. Consider her need for recognition. This story has no chapters.
He lined up the shovels, small to large, and weighed his options against the size of the hole. After midnight, he would begin to dig, without whistling.