“He’s not coming,” I said, and threw my finished cigarette on the ground. I moved my shoe over the remnants of the butt, about to be extinguished by my ballet flat. I took a…
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“He’s not coming,” I said, and threw my finished cigarette on the ground. I moved my shoe over the remnants of the butt, about to be extinguished by my ballet flat. I took a…
These days, I cruise the streets of Williamsburg—Marcy Avenue, Wythe Avenue, Bedford—camera dangling from my neck, protected by my flannel jacket, pillowed against my chest. I pedal slowly, on the lookout for my mark.…