Three Graces At Beggar's Monument
A cigarette appeared in Cy’s mouth like a jump cut.
“I’m like Peter Pan and ya’ll are my misfit toys.” He scratched his gut over the smoothed down 4x t-shirt.
“The lost boys.” Jetta corrected him thru her own cigarette. “This is what we do when we come back from running away.”
She sat and bolted one from the freshly opened bottle.
There was no thunder, no glowing doorway, no mysterious wind blowing through the apartment, and no choir of angels politely alerting me that physics had submitted its resignation.
The deck simply felt heavier.