“So, hey, what about Saturday?”
“The Lounge?” Stupid traffic. Glowering at the taxis, buses, and cars that sped haphazardly through the crosswalk, the man shifted his cell phone to his other hand, shoving his frozen hand into the deep pocket of his black wool coat. The sounds of heels on pavement, jackhammers boring new holes into the asphalt, and the caterwauls of law enforcement vehicles racing towards disaster were so familiar he didn’t hear them anymore. “Clara isn’t going to be there is she?”
There was a pause on the other end. “No. Er, are you still on no-talking terms…?”
An opening. A small one, but if he ran fast enough he might be able to make it. How come the crosswalk signs seemed to only last for ten seconds?
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