Close But She’s No Mary

Photo by Adan Guerrero on Unsplash

The damp grit crunched under my non-slip, geriatric style shoes as I walked the three blocks from Methodist Hospital to my studio apartment. Hopefully, the street sweepers will clean up the grime next month. Cigarette butts, beer cans, and fast food wrappers dotted the curbside on either side of Fillmore Street. Too bad this morning’s downpour didn’t wash much of it away. Instead it glued it to the pavement.

The air smelled of rain and the dull gray clouds threatened to open up again. The humid air made my laundry uniform cling tighter to my sweaty body. A shower would feel wonderful, but my studio doesn’t have one – only has a clawfoot tub.

Ugh, as usual, smoking dude is out front. I don’t want to talk to him today. Why isn’t he working somewhere? He doesn’t appear disabled. Unemployment doesn’t pay enough for him to chain smoke his Swisher Sweets. Maybe he smokes instead of eats, he’s awfully thin.

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