There was a man on the balcony. I watched him standing there. Feet shifting on the cement, flickering light from the tiki torches. Two feet, black shoes. The bedspread was damp from humidity. It was a hot night.
–You fly a lot, right? Cheky, you fly a lot?
I wiped my forehead with a crumpled paper towel I’d just blown my nose with. It smeared a little of the blood.
Jared Roscoe
David Feinstein
Sarah