The Missing Half
The rain in New York doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the grime slicker, gives it a sheen that catches the neon from the bars and bodegas and the occasional flickering sign that still works on 42nd Street. I was sitting at my desk in my office in Midtown, watching the rain trace lazy paths down the window, nursing a glass of rye that cost less than the coffee I used to drink before...
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