‘Here you go.’
The racks are crammed with the work of street artists, rife with angles and close-ups. Cellulite sags over the plastic rows. She scrunches her nose and picks a cigarette.
He sits with a card in his hand. Five or seven is what he wants, but he’s had queens all week. A man with a gold wristwatch glances at him sharply as he walks past the badly parked car. His car is a Cadillac. A pink Cadillac, loud and unique. He cruises through the city, and he pulls up next to the yellow army, next to tired skin, next to rusted round tables with yesterday’s coffee stains. A horn strains above the city’s crashing breakbeat. He watches her get back into the car with his skin’s grease all over the creased card. She checks behind her. Awkward smiles. She fumbles with something below seat level. He doesn’t duck. He never does.
She pulls away from the kerb. Square white shopping bags race past attached to long jeweled limbs and smart dark coats. A whispery rain starts to fall. She is at the lights. Red.
He flips the card. Red. He looks up. Amber. He looks back down. Seven.
Green. He pulls out.