Grey Eyes
The rain in New York doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the grime slicker, like the whole city is sweating grease. I sat in my booth at Sal's Diner on 47th Street, watching the neon sign buzz and flicker through the fogged window. Three blocks over, a siren was wailing the same note it had been holding for twenty minutes. Nobody paid attention. Nobody ever does.The door opened and he...
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