The Wistful Show
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, grey sheet that turned the streets of Chicago into a mirror of the sky, reflecting the dull neon signs of the bars and the tired faces of the men who wandered through them. I sat in the back booth of a diner on the South Side, the vinyl seat cracking under my weight, watching the condensation slide down the window pane in slow, weeping...
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